


At First Bite

by redseeker



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Biting, Blood Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, Gothic tropes, M/M, Nipple Play, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-06-21 05:46:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 50,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15550956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redseeker/pseuds/redseeker
Summary: Each generation a sacrifice is chosen to appease the monster in the castle on the hill and become the vampire's bride. This year the honour belongs to Waylon Park.





	1. The Sacrifice

Once every generation, a sacrifice was chosen. The village where Waylon Park grew up was nestled at the foot of a craggy, forested mountain and surrounded on all sides by dark and impassable woods. The only roads leading through those woods were dangerous, and traders who ventured outside the village’s borders took their lives in their hands when they did so. Beyond the village, monsters roamed the dark woods just waiting to prey on unsuspecting humans—the only thing that protected the people of the village was the goodwill of the Lord, a vampire who resided in the black castle on top of the mountain and who permitted no intruders to his demesne save the occasional traveling tradesman or tinker. The price for Lord Gluskin’s protection, and thereby the villagers’ continued survival in a world where humans were rarely seen as more than food, was the sacrifice of a virgin every few decades to be the vampire’s “bride”.

Everyone knew Lord Gluskin was mad. He had lived in his castle for as long as anybody could remember, and everyone in the village had grown up hearing stories of their terrifying benefactor’s frightening quirks and bloodthirsty habits. They said that the last time a troop of bloodsucking bandits tried to invade his territory, Lord Gluskin ripped the intruders limb from limb and strung their remains from the trees surrounding the road into the village as a warning to any other fools who might dare to come near. None of his “brides” ever returned from the castle, and even though most people avoided talking about it, it was commonly known that the unfortunate girls met their demise at their protector’s hands—or rather, his teeth. The villagers lived their lives shouldering this grief, swallowing their shame at having bought their survival with the blood of their innocent daughters.

This year was a choosing year—it was time to send a new sacrifice to meet her deadly “groom”. However, the anxiety in the village surrounding this year’s sacrifice was reaching a whole new level. It had been a hard winter after a few hard years. Starvation and sickness had swept through the village during the cold months, and of the survivors, the last young woman of suitable age had fled with a handful of other young people to find a better life in the capital city. Prior to that, few girl children had been born in the last few decades, and of those babies, only one had survived past infancy. Her parents had lived these last fourteen years with the awful knowledge that their daughter had only one fate awaiting her. She would never marry, never have a child of her own, never live the full and happy life any parent might want for their child; instead her lot was to be the offering, the coin with which her village bought their survival.

Susanna was a frail girl of only fourteen summers, still only a child. No one in the village relished giving away their young women, but they were especially unhappy with the idea of sending a child.

But there was nothing else to be done. If Lord Gluskin was displeased, there was nothing to stop him from slaughtering every single person living on his land. He would be within his rights as the local lord, and if he were to simply withdraw his protection instead then a rival vampire would only move in and slaughter them instead. One life would be sacrificed to save the lives of everyone else.

On the night of the choosing, the whole village packed into the small crumbling church. The small space was fragrant with the scents of flowers displayed all around in vases and garlands, and illuminated by hundreds of white candles, as well as the moonlight that filtered through the stained-glass window above the altar. It was a particular perversity that Gluskin insisted on this grotesque ceremony, Waylon thought, his lip curling in distaste as he looked around. The church had looked much the same on his own wedding day. His wife, Lisa, sat beside him on the wooden pew, along with their two children. The boys were only four and two, too young to understand what was going on, but old enough to sense the nervous energy in the air. Little Evan grizzled and squirmed on his mother’s knee, while Thomas, seated between Waylon and Lisa, held tightly onto Waylon’s hand.

Susanna, the girl they were sending to her death, stood at the altar all dressed in white. The long, voluminous dress that would have been sewn by her own tearful mother looked more like a shroud than a bridal gown, and only served to make the girl look even thinner and younger than she already was. Her face was pale in the moonlight, and her light golden hair was wound with flowers. More night-blooming flowers were twined into a wreath atop her head.

Waylon thanked God he and Lisa had had boys instead of girls.

A hush fell over the church as a shadow passed over the moonlit window. The candles flared brightly for a second, then puffed out. The villagers rose to their feet in the darkness, and the silence was broken only by terrified mutterings and Susanna’s sobbing, only partly muffled by her hand over her mouth. In her other hand, her bouquet of white lilies trembled, shedding petals. Suddenly her head shot up, and she stared wide-eyed toward the church door. Waylon followed her eyes in time to see the shadows thicken until they formed the shape of a man. It took a few seconds before every villager realised their lord had arrived. When they did, the fear in the air became palpable. Waylon’s oldest clung onto his hand and hid behind his legs, while little Evan began to cry.

The priest was a young man, and he had never done this before. He stood before the altar with Susanna and her parents and stared at the approaching vampire just like everyone else, just as helpless, just as useless. He stood aside as Gluskin neared his bride. Lord Edward Gluskin was a huge man with a powerful frame, paper white skin, and jet black hair. Susanna watched her intended advance on her with a look of abject terror upon her face.

Lisa must have sensed Waylon’s disquiet, because she leaned closer to him and whispered, “It’ll be over soon.”

That wasn’t the problem, Waylon thought. Didn’t she understand? But of course, Lisa had their own children to think about, and so did Waylon. Their lives were on the line. Wouldn’t they sacrifice anything to keep them safe? Wouldn’t she?

“Is this the best you have to offer?” Gluskin was saying as he approached Susanna. The girl recoiled from him and turned to her parents who stood beside her.

“Mama please, don’t make me go with him. Papa, I don’t want to!” She grabbed for both of them but they moved away. The father’s face was stony, while Susanna’s mother turned away to hide her tears. Waylon felt rage rising up inside him. He couldn’t imagine being in their position, happily selling one of his children to a horrible fate just so he could sleep safer at night.

When Gluskin reached out for the girl, Waylon snapped. His voice rang out as he cried, “Stop!”

All eyes turned toward him. After a moment, even the vampire turned around and fixed him with his otherworldly stare. Waylon got his first good look at the monster’s face. It was a handsome face, all things considered, with high cheekbones and full lips, bright blue eyes ringed by thick black lashes. One side of his face was snarled up with red scars as though he had been burned. He singled Waylon out in the crowd—not difficult, since the moment Waylon spoke out, everyone else drew away from him. Nobody wanted to be connected to the madman who talked back to their immortal lord. Only Lisa remained by his side, although Waylon could sense the tension in her. She held Evan more tightly and angled her body subtly to block Gluskin’s view of the child, while Thomas hid entirely behind Waylon’s legs. Waylon met Gluskin’s gaze even though he felt like his heart was about to give out. He had already begun to shake.

“I’m awfully sorry, were you addressing me?” said Gluskin. His soft, strangely breathy voice sent a sick chill down Waylon’s spine. Behind him, Susanna looked pleadingly at Waylon. She wanted someone to save her, anyone.

No one else stepped forward.

“I was,” Waylon said. He transferred Thomas’s hand to Lisa’s and stepped out into the aisle. Lisa hissed at him to stay back, but he couldn’t risk looking at her just then—if he lost his nerve Gluskin would only make an example of him, and he’d have wasted his own life and not helped Susanna or anyone else one bit. If he lost his nerve, he would never be able to say what he said next, which was: “Take me instead.”

The whole church was silent. Perhaps some wanted to laugh, but nobody dared. Gluskin’s “brides” were always virgins, and always women. That was how it had always been, for hundreds of years. Waylon was neither, but he was young and everyone had always said he was uncommonly pretty for a man. Maybe that would be enough.

After an agonising silence, Gluskin said, “ _You_?”

Waylon took a breath and steeled himself. He took another step towards the vampire. “Yes, me. Look at her, she’s still only a child. She couldn’t possibly satisfy you.”

“Her blood will taste just as sweet,” Gluskin replied. Waylon felt like he had been drenched in icy water. Sweat dripped down his back.

“But she is weak,” Waylon said. He hardly knew what he was saying. “Just look at her. She’s frail, she’ll never survive long.” He was making a gamble—the vampire only asked for a sacrifice every generation, which suggested to Waylon that he made each one last as long as he could. Supernatural or not, he was a creature like any other and he needed to feed or he would perish.

“And you think you would be the better option,” Gluskin said. He stalked closer to Waylon. Lisa and the boys backed away, and Waylon was left to face the monster alone. He swallowed, knowing his terror was clear to see. Gluskin’s eyes roamed over him, up and down, as he approached. When he was close enough to touch, close enough that Waylon had to crane his neck to look him in the face, he took Waylon’s chin between his thumb and finger. He turned Waylon’s head one way and then the other, appraising him silently. Every fibre of Waylon’s being was screaming out that he should run. The rest of the villagers watched, stunned and silent. Nobody else stepped up to save him, not even his wife.

He wouldn’t have wanted them to.

“You have amazing bone structure,” Gluskin breathed. Then, “You’re not like the others, are you?” He tilted Waylon’s head and made him look at him. “There’s something different about you. Even these idiots see it.” Waylon didn’t know what to say to that, so he stayed silent. Gluskin gave him a searching look, and then slid his hand into Waylon’s hair. Leaning in, he took a deep breath in through his nose. _Smelling him_ , Waylon realised. Suddenly he felt sick. The reality of what he was doing hit him, and the adrenaline and righteous anger that had powered him this far drained away.

It was too late to change his mind. If he changed his mind, then it would be poor Susanna on the chopping block instead.

“You’re not a virgin, though, are you?” Gluskin said. His eyes flickered to where Lisa clutched her crying children.

“I’m willing,” Waylon said, and was amazed at how steady his voice sounded. His face was red, but the impertinent question had got him angry again. That was what he needed. “Isn’t that worth something?”

“Oh, but it is.” Gluskin’s eyes were fair sparkling now. “I’ve never had a lamb come willingly to the slaughter before. This should be interesting.” He firmed his grip in Waylon’s hair and turned, half pushing and half throwing Waylon toward the altar. Waylon stumbled but managed to stay on his feet. “It’s decided, then! Priest, marry us! I must make an honest woman of her…” As he said this last he trailed his hand over Waylon’s cheek, causing Waylon to bare his teeth as he repressed the urge to slap that hand away.

The priest, a young man Waylon knew well and with whom he had shared many a friendly chat after services on a Sunday, stared between Waylon and Gluskin, his face pale, and stammered, “B-but… but h-he's…”

With a pinched scowl, Gluskin snapped, “Already married? Hm.” He turned back to the pews and found Lisa with his eyes, and muttered, “Soon to be widowed…”

“No! Wait.” Waylon grabbed Gluskin’s arm, as though there was any chance of his being able to hold him back. “Please don’t hurt her!”

Gluskin regarded him contemplatively. Then, to Waylon’s surprise, he said, “Very well, I suppose we can postpone the ceremony. I’ll do you this kindness. I’m not a cruel husband, you’ll learn that in time. But your union with that harlot,” he pointed a finger at Lisa, who looked about ready to slay the creature herself, “is over. Now, shall we?”

Waylon bit back tears. He released Gluskin’s arm and said, “Please, let me say goodbye first?”

Gluskin sighed through his nose. Frowning, he gave Waylon a dismissive wave. “Be quick about it,” he said.

Waylon returned to Lisa, who grabbed onto his hand and held on tight. “Don’t do this,” she hissed. Her dark eyes swam with tears.

“I have to,” Waylon said, trying his best to stay strong.

“You don’t.”

“Daddy, what’s happening?”

“I…” Waylon crouched down in front of Thomas and explained, “Daddy has to go away for a little while now, Tommy, but I promise to come back as soon as I can. Will you be a good boy for Mommy? Take care of her and Evan for me?” Thomas nodded solemnly. Waylon hugged him tight, kissed his brow, and then stood and pressed his face to his younger son’s hair. “I’m sorry, Evan, I hope you’ll understand and forgive me one day.”

“ _I_ don’t understand,” Lisa sobbed. “Please don’t do this.”

“Would you rather I let that little girl go instead?” Waylon said. Lisa couldn’t tell him that. She looked defeated, and only shook her head as the tears rolled down her face.

“Waylon…”

“I love you,” Waylon said. He kissed her.

There was a snarl behind him and then a hand in his hair, yanking him backwards.

“You’re mine now,” said Gluskin. “I wouldn’t forget again, if I were you. Now, you’ve said your goodbyes. Time to go.”

“Wait, I-” Waylon tried to struggle out of the vampire’s grip, but before he could break free his world was enveloped in shadows. He felt like he came unanchored, he didn’t know which way was up or down, and all he could do was hold onto the one thing he could touch that was real, and that was Gluskin. The awful disorienting confusion was over in a moment, and then Waylon found himself standing in a vast hall upon a stone floor. He was in the castle atop the mountain, he realised. He had never been inside before. This must be the great hall. It was a huge chamber with stone walls and floor that did nothing to keep out the chill—outside it was a warm spring night, but inside the hall it still felt like winter. The ceiling high above was festooned with cobwebs, and such furniture as there was was blanketed in dust. A few candles illuminated the space, not nearly enough for a chamber of this size. Their feeble glow somehow served to make the shadows surrounding them look even darker and more gloomy. A huge hearth on one side of the room stood dark and empty.

Waylon had barely had a chance to look around before a stranger approached him. Waylon backed away instinctively, only to bump into Gluskin standing behind him. The vampire’s arms came around him, and he froze.

“Master, you’ve come back,” said the stranger. He was dressed in rags, and had sunken eyes ringed with dark shadows, and a shaved head. He gave Waylon a curious, confused look and then glanced behind him, clearly looking for somebody else. “But where’s the girl? Master, where’s your bride?”

Gluskin took Waylon by the hair once more and tilted his head up. “This is she,” he said. He tugged Waylon against his body, and Waylon strained to look up at him. A wide, white smile split his face, displaying his monstrous pointed teeth. “I want you to get her ready for me, Dennis” Gluskin said, his voice a husky purr. “It’s our wedding night, I want her to be beautiful.”

With that, he shoved Waylon at the other man. Waylon barely avoided slamming into him, and straightened and dusted off his shirt, smoothed back his hair.

“Let me look at you,” said Dennis. Waylon may have imagined it, but his voice sounded rougher than a moment ago. He grasped Waylon’s chin and inspected his face, then pried his mouth open to look at his teeth. He stepped back and said, “Give me a turn, little girly. Let me see… Ah, not a total loss. Looks strong.”

“Mhmm. There’s something special about this one. I think this might just be _the one_.” Dennis gasped. “After all these centuries…” Gluskin took Waylon back, and even though Waylon trembled and tensed, barely suppressing the urge to bolt—or to punch him—he submitted to the vampire’s possessive touch to his throat. Gluskin caressed the side of his neck, traced a line from the corner of his jaw down to his collarbone. “Do I dare to hope?” he murmured, as he pinned Waylon’s eyes with his own piercing blue ones, cold and deep as a mountain lake in winter. “You won’t let me down, will you, darling?” The pet name was like a caress, silky and all too intimate. It made Waylon shiver and recoil. To Dennis, Gluskin said, “My bride will join me for dinner tonight.”

“Y-yes Master Gluskin,” said Dennis, sounding now like a timid boy. He hunched his shoulders, twisted his fingers in front of him, and stared up at the vampire with wide eyes full of fear and awe.

Gluskin gave Waylon’s face one final stroke. He leaned close, close enough for Waylon to see every gnarled scar upon his face, the keen points of his teeth as his lips parted—he thought he would kiss him, then, and he squeezed his eyes closed and braced himself. The kiss never came. He heard Gluskin chuckle, and then he was released.

“So eager, my love,” the vampire crooned as he stepped backwards. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. There will be time for all of that, later. All the time in the world.”

 

* * *

 

Dennis led Waylon out of the great hall and up a huge flight of stairs, down a hallway and up another spiral staircase, and then at last through a short maze of corridors to a large door carved of dark solid oak.

“Gonna fix you up real pretty,” the man said as he pushed the door open. Something about him made Waylon profoundly uncomfortable, although of course it was nothing compared to his master. Dennis’s manner changed so abruptly from moment to moment Waylon couldn’t figure out where he was coming from, so he responded to his odd comments with only a tight-lipped smile that was almost a grimace and a small nod. He followed Dennis through the door to find himself in a large bedroom. It was well appointed, although apparently long disused. The furniture was of high quality and far more fancy than anything to be found in the village below, but a layer of dust covered everything and there were cobwebs in the corners, up near the ceiling. There was a four-poster bed draped with dusty crimson velvet curtains, a huge armoire, and a ladies’ dressing table, all made from the same dark wood. The stone floor was cushioned by thick carpets, and the counterpane on the bed was made from exquisite lace. Bottles and jars stood on the dressing table, left behind by the room’s previous occupant. It was clearly a woman’s room. Waylon wondered if he would find gowns hanging in that armoire, should he open it. Were these abandoned belongings all that remained of Gluskin’s last “bride”? What would Waylon leave behind once the vampire ultimately drained him dry?

Of course, he had already left behind his family. Lisa was probably worried sick about him, and would his sons ever really understand why their father had gone away? He hated to think they would believe he left them because he wanted to. Lisa probably hated him for the choice he had made. They weren’t even close to Susanna’s family, and everyone had known for years that the girl was destined for the castle. He had acted in a moment of madness, but when he had heard the girl’s sobs and seen how she pleaded with her own parents not to send her to her death, he had not been able to stand there and let it happen. He just couldn't be party to the murder of an innocent girl.

Maybe Gluskin could be reasoned with. He was a monster, true, but he wasn’t a mindless beast. He had been human once. Maybe Waylon could convince him to let him go.

But then, if he did let Waylon go, he would only move on to another victim in his place. Another Susanna would lose her future and ultimately her life, and another, and another, and their deaths would lie upon Waylon’s conscience.

“Didya hear me?” Dennis snapped, pulling Waylon abruptly out of his thoughts.

“What?”

“Tsk, women! I said strip.”

Waylon’s cheeks immediately flared bright red, and he glowered at the other man. They were almost of a height, and while Dennis looked strong enough Waylon didn’t think he could overpower him. Not like his master, who was easily seven feet tall, maybe more, and built of solid muscle—not to mention his supernatural strength. Dennis unnerved Waylon, but he didn’t frighten him. “What?” he said.

He heard movement behind him and turned to see two other men enter the room, carrying between them a brass tub, which they set down in the middle of the floor. They were skinnier than Dennis to the point that they looked underfed. Their faces were deformed into hideous snarls, and what Waylon could see of their bodies beneath their loose rags was covered with scars—not burns like Gluskin’s, but something else, perhaps the remnants of some terrible plague. Once they had set down the tub they left again without a word—in fact, they didn’t seem to even notice Waylon was there—presumably to fetch water for the bath.

“Strip,” Dennis said again. “Mister Gluskin wants you cleaned up for dinner.”

“I can bathe myself,” said Waylon. He was no blushing young virgin, and he refused to be bullied into obeying this man’s every command. He had agreed to be the sacrifice, to give up his freedom and his blood to the master of this castle, but he drew the line at cowering before the master’s human servant.

After a moment’s hesitation, in which Dennis looked Waylon up and down to presumably gauge whether or not it was worth trying to force the issue, Dennis grumbled, “All right, suit yourself, but the master has awful high standards." He turned to go, pausing before he reached the door to mutter, “On your head be it.”

“I’ll manage,” Waylon said crisply, and Dennis shook his head and retreated.

It took the skinny servants several trips to fill the tub with hot water. When the bath was ready, Waylon stripped and lowered himself into the water. It was nice and warm, and the servants had even left a ball of soap to wash himself with. He didn’t think he was especially dirty, but he scrubbed himself all over just the same, even washing his short blond hair and shaking it dry. The soap smelled sweetly of lavender. Perhaps another personal item left behind by a previous bride.

He was just winding a linen cloth around his middle, having risen from his bath and blotted most of the moisture from his skin, when Dennis returned. He carried over his arm several items of clothing, of all different fabrics and colours. Waylon had half expected to see a wedding dress. Dennis laid the assorted garments out on the bed, and Waylon moved closer to investigate.

Dresses. All of them were dresses.

All very beautiful, exceedingly fine dresses, but there was just one problem—Waylon would not be wearing any of them.

“I’m not wearing these,” he said. Dennis took a step back from him in shock, staring, goggle-eyed, as though Waylon had just announced he was from the moon.

“Now you listen here, girly-”

“Girly?” Waylon took a chance. He drew himself up to his full six feet. “Am I not the lady of this house?”

“Er… W-well-”

“Well?”

“Y-yes, I mean, technically-” Dennis looked away, and his shoulders hunched. When he spoke next it was in the wheedling, youthful voice Waylon had heard when he spoke to Gluskin in the great hall. “I’m s-sorry Mrs. Gluskin-”

“Sir will be fine,” said Waylon. He made his voice firm, the same voice he used when telling off his son. As he suspected, Dennis responded just like a child chastised.

“Whatever you say Mrs- Sir.”

“Good. Now go and find me something more suitable to wear. Breeches and a shirt. Maybe something of your master’s can be altered to fit me.”

Dennis glanced up at him and hesitated. He wasn’t happy, but seemed caught between Waylon and Gluskin and terrified of getting into trouble from either of them. Waylon didn’t think he would have this kind of power over Dennis’s other personalities, so he pressed his advantage now. “Off you go,” he prompted. Flinching, Dennis gathered up the gowns and hurried from the room. Alone again, Waylon breathed a sigh of relief. One obstacle down. He had a feeling that the next one—dinner with the master vampire himself—was not going to be so easy to clear.

 

* * *

 

Waylon had expected dinner to take place in the great hall, but it was not to the hall that Waylon was led when the hour arrived. Instead, he was directed to a smaller upstairs room, the master’s private solar, although at this late hour the large windows let in only moonlight. There was a table set for two, decorated and lit by a black candelabra. More candles burned in sconces around the walls, lending their warm golden light to create an intimate setting. The walls here were paneled with dark wood, and tapestries hung here and there, so old and faded Waylon could barely make out their images.

Dennis opened the door and ushered Waylon inside, but didn’t follow him in. The sound of the door closing behind him sent a chill through Waylon, and he knew he would be facing the master alone.

At first he didn’t see him. Then he picked out the glint of his eyes in the shadowy darkness at the back of the room. Gluskin moved into the candlelight and graced Waylon with a wide smile. “Darling!” he exclaimed. Startled, Waylon took a step back. Gluskin said in honeyed tones, “Did I frighten you? I’m awfully sorry, I didn’t mean to. I was only so excited to get to know you. It’s been so long since we had a lady in the castle.” He paused, and his smile faltered as he looked down Waylon’s body. “Why, but you aren’t dressed for dinner!”

“The gowns were all very beautiful,” said Waylon, placing his hands on his hips. “But unfortunately I couldn’t find one that fit.”

Gluskin’s jet black brows lowered into a scowl. “That Dennis, I gave him one job and he couldn’t even do that. Well, I suppose there’s nothing for it—darling, let me take your measurements and I’ll alter some gowns to fit. Or no, better yet, let me create something entirely new just for you. ”

“Is this unacceptable?” Waylon spread his hands, lifting his jaw slightly to show off the strong column of his throat. He was dressed simply in a white cambric shirt with an open collar and long sleeves, embroidered at the cuffs and tucked into soft breeches of tawny velvet. It was not the lavish outfit he was sure Gluskin would usually have put his brides in, but Waylon was not one of his usual brides. He had no idea where Dennis had found the garments, but he was hugely grateful to the strange man for having done so. Waylon looked masculine and handsome, and the simple but fine clothing showed off his lean figure to great effect. His dark blond hair was swept back from his face, the better to display his fine features. All his life he had had women sighing over him, while the men of the village mistrusted him for being too pretty. That was one of the reasons no one had spoken up to prevent him taking Susanna’s place—too many in the village would secretly be happy to see him gone. He saw Gluskin’s eyes wander down over his body. The vampire shook his head.

“It is not… terrible. At least you no longer look like a filthy peasant. Please, have a seat.” Suddenly, without Waylon seeing him move, Gluskin was on Waylon’s side of the table and pulling out a chair. Waylon had not expected such manners from a beast. Warily, he sat. Gluskin returned to the other side of the table and took the other seat. “Please, there’s no need to stand on ceremony. We’ll soon be getting to know each other very well, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure,” Waylon repeated.

More scarred servants entered carrying covered dishes which they set on the table. The dishes were then uncovered, and Waylon sat motionless as one of the servants piled food onto his plate. To his surprise, the food looked and smelled appetising—beef in a thick gravy, served with steamed greens and mashed tubers, and all piping hot from the kitchens. Simple enough, but richer and better spiced than any simple fare to be found in the village. Waylon was surprised at first, before he realised that of course Gluskin would want to keep Waylon alive and healthy—at least until he tired of him. Gluskin’s plate remained empty, but one of the servants poured something thick and red into his goblet from a crystal carafe. Maybe it was wine.

“Please, eat.”

Waylon had little choice. He could refuse and starve himself, but then he returned to that same conundrum. His death would only mean someone else took his place, and then this entire gesture would be rendered meaningless. He picked up his fork and ate. It was good, much better than he had expected. In truth it was better than anything he had eaten before, having grown up in the village at the base of the mountain, forever in the shadow of the castle’s twin towers. After the first couple of bites, Waylon wolfed down the plateful. Gluskin watched him, his own plate empty. He held his goblet in his hand and occasionally sipped from it. He didn’t try to make conversation, only observed Waylon closely, near unblinkingly. When Waylon was mopping up the last of his gravy with a piece of bread roll, Gluskin said, “Seconds? Or would you care for dessert?”

“Dessert?”

Gluskin made a small gesture, and two scarred servants cleared the dishes from this course and returned with a dish bearing some kind of steamed pudding, piping hot, and richly studded with fruit. Waylon was full from the savoury course, but his mouth watered all the same.

If the vampire was going to drink him dry, he might as well enjoy a full meal beforehand.

Gluskin watched him eat his dessert with an indulgent smile on his face, like a master observing a treasured pet. Waylon tried not to let his anxiety show, but he was acutely aware of the vampire’s gaze the entire time he was eating. He was, therefore, instantly aware when Gluskin rose from his chair. He swallowed thickly and set down his spoon. This time Gluskin didn’t move faster than Waylon could see. He moved slowly now, stalking his way around the table while never taking his eyes off Waylon. Waylon gripped the edge of the table and tried to steel himself. This was what he was here for. This was the moment everything before had been leading up to. All the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck were standing upright, the same way they would in the presence of a bear or a wolf—there was a predator within striking distance, and Waylon’s every instinct was telling him to flee. He mastered those instincts long enough for Gluskin to round the table and enter his space. At the first brush of the vampire’s fingertips in his hair, his whole body froze up.

“You have beautiful skin,” Gluskin breathed. “It will be such a shame to break it.” Waylon didn’t look up at him, instead fixing his gaze upon a tapestry on the wall directly opposite him, which, under the dust and the fading of centuries, seemed to depict deer being speared by a mounted huntsman, dogs baying around the poor creature’s feet. Waylon felt like that deer now. Gluskin leaned closer, his massive body looming over Waylon’s smaller form. Waylon’s knuckles turned white where he still gripped the table. Closer still, and then Gluskin was nosing Waylon’s hair and taking a deep breath in. “You smell delicious, darling.”

That was it. Against Waylon’s higher reasoning, he bolted. The chair fell down in a clatter as he leapt to his feet and sprinted from the room. The door was unlocked, and he wrenched it open and darted out into the corridor beyond. “Darling, where are you going?” he heard Gluskin cry behind him. “It’s rude to leave the table before everyone has finished eating-!”

The castle was a maze. Waylon didn’t know where he was going or what he hoped to achieve. He already regretted his lapse in control, but it was too late to go back now—like any predator, a vampire would chase down fleeing prey, and stopping to reason with the fiend or try to explain his fears would gain him nothing but a torn out throat.

Waylon had seen a vampire’s handiwork before. Long ago, when he had been only a child, a pack of rogue vampires had entered the forest. Waylon had strayed from his parents, roaming the forest foraging for food one particularly lean year, and stumbled into their path. He had thought for sure he would die that day, but before they could fall upon him, a shadow had appeared from the woods behind them and slaughtered them before they could do the same to him. Waylon remembered only that the darkness had come alive, the very shadows of the forest reaching out to grab the invaders and destroy them, but now as his mind served up the memory, he thought maybe he had also seen the flash of white teeth and the glimmer of eyes like blue flames in the dark. He hadn’t told anyone about that incident, not ever. Not even his parents, not even his wife. When the shadows had pulled back, Waylon had been left alone in the forest clearing and the snow on the ground was splattered with dark glossy red. The vampires had been hungry, and their blood had been so dark a crimson it had almost looked black. He remembered how their throats had been torn out so deeply their heads were nearly detached from their bodies, and the horrified expressions on their dead faces had been burned into Waylon’s mind ever since.

If Gluskin caught him now, would the same thing happen to him? It would be a quick and ignoble death. He wouldn’t have saved anyone.

All these thoughts flitted through his mind in the seconds it took him to thunder down the corridor and around a corner, then down a staircase so quickly he almost tripped and fell head over heels onto the stone. He kept his footing, just barely, and continued on in a mad flight. There was no sound of pursuit behind him, and when he glanced back he saw nothing. He didn’t slow down. He was barely aware of where his feet were taking him, except that it was deeper and deeper into the castle. Unfamiliar hallways flew by, windows that looked out onto strange views, shadowed courtyards and mysterious moonlit gardens. He burst through a set of double doors into a long gallery, high windows lining the wall on his right while the wall on the left was hung with huge paintings in heavy, ornate frames. The floor was carpeted, muting Waylon’s hurried footsteps as he ran the length of the gallery. Moonlight streamed in through the windows, casting the long chamber in shades of silver. All was silent. Waylon’s steps slowed a little, and he continued at a jog until he heard the doors behind him slam shut. He gasped and whipped around. There, just inside the doors, was Gluskin. His hulking silhouette appeared doubly monstrous set against the elegant backdrop of the gallery. His eyes reflected the moonlight, and his smile had stretched into a toothy grimace. “Darling!” He started forward at a walk, his shoulders hunched and his head down like an animal corning its prey.

Waylon turned and ran. Gluskin crossed the space between them far faster than he should have been able to at that pace, and suddenly Waylon felt Gluskin’s fingers claw into the back of his shirt. He wrenched free, just barely, but two steps later Gluskin succeeded in grabbing a handful of the finely woven cambric. He pulled, Waylon stumbled, and then Gluskin’s weight was on him, driving him to the floor and knocking the wind from his lungs. Waylon, mindless with panic now, tried to fight his way free, but the vampire pressed a hand to the back of his neck and pinned him to the carpet. His body was on top of Waylon’s, his teeth by his ear, and the animal growl he let out at Waylon’s struggling drew a sob from the depths of Waylon’s throat. Gluskin’s other hand hooked into Waylon’s collar and pulled. For a moment Waylon strained for breath as the collar pressed against his windpipe, but then the fabric ripped and Gluskin tore it free, exposing Waylon’s neck and shoulder.

“Why did you run from me, my darling?” Gluskin said, his voice a sensuous, breathy growl. Waylon was surprised he could speak at all—everything he had heard or read about a vampire’s blood lust suggested the beast would be beyond words when the hunger was on him. “That was really… very… rude…”

“Don’t, please,” Waylon pleaded. All his noble intentions were forgotten now, all his high designs of sacrificing himself for the good of his family and friends. “Stop-”

“Nonsense, darling,” Gluskin said. His body was cold against Waylon’s, cold and hard as a block of ice. Waylon felt his icy breath against the side of his neck, where he was sure Gluskin could see his pulse jumping wildly with the frantic beating of his heart. “You should know I can’t stop now.”

Waylon craned his neck to look at Gluskin’s face. He saw the beast’s smiling mouth morph into a monstrous maw filled with jagged teeth—Gluskin stretched his jaw wide, and then with one snap he sank his fangs into Waylon’s neck.

Waylon had expected pain. And true, for a moment there was pain—excruciating, debilitating pain the like of which he had never experienced—but the next instant it was gone like a memory, like a dream, and in its place was something much worse.

Pleasure.

Heat coursed through his veins, spreading from the point where Gluskin’s teeth penetrated him down throughout his entire body until it focused, pulsing, between his legs. He went limp in Gluskin’s hold, and whimpered as the monster sucked the life out of him. Before long he began to feel lightheaded. Black spots swam on the edges of his vision, and his ears began to sing. He pushed ineffectually at Gluskin, but he was immovable. A last plea died on his tongue as darkness claimed him at last, and his world went black.


	2. Beloved

The next morning found Waylon sitting on his curtained feather bed, gingerly touching the side of his neck. He had awoken to find it bandaged, and had not yet dared take off the dressing to inspect the throbbing wound beneath.

He was surprised to be alive. After he had blacked out on the floor of the gallery with Lord Gluskin’s teeth buried in his flesh, he had no memory of anything else until he awoke in this bedroom to gentle sunlight filtering through the latticed windows, all alone. On his nightstand there was a tray with a couple of covered dishes, which upon investigation yielded a plate of scrambled eggs with a generous pile of crispy bacon rashers dripping grease, and two slices of thick white bread with a little dish of butter to spread on them. There was also a small vase containing a single red rose, and a folded card. Waylon ignored the card for now. As soon as he got a whiff of the bacon he realised he was ravenous, and he descended upon the plate and devoured every crumb. It was only after his belly was full and he was no longer lightheaded and woozy that he picked up the card. He unfolded it to find a note written in a smoothly looping hand. It read:

 

_My darling,_

_Please allow me to apologise for my dreadful behaviour last night. In my eagerness to know you it seems my baser nature quite got the better of me. If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, please meet me in the rose garden at midnight so I can make amends._

_In the meantime, Dennis has been instructed to meet your every need—only ring for him should you require anything._

_Yours,_

_Your beloved Edward._

 

“Beloved?” Waylon murmured. He touched the bandage on his neck again, remembering all of Gluskin’s “eagerness” from the previous night—his weight upon his back, his teeth piercing him, the pain, and then, following that, the pleasure…

“Tsk!” He threw the card down on the emptied plate and rose at last from the bed. He crossed to the dressing table and flung himself into the chair in front of it to inspect his reflection in the mirror. He looked pale, with shadows beneath his eyes, but otherwise none too worse for wear. He found the end of the bandage and began to unwind it. He almost didn’t dare to look, but he couldn’t afford to be squeamish now. The wound was surprisingly small. From the look of Gluskin’s teeth and the force of the bite, he had expected half his neck to be missing. Instead there was a neat ring of pink indentations in the pale flesh of Waylon’s neck, a scar that already looked weeks old. He frowned. How had he healed so fast? Some kind of vampiric tricks? He opted not to replace the bandage. It wasn’t an open wound any longer, clearly, and he had no reason to hide it. He’d wager everyone in the castle knew exactly who he was and what he was there for by now.

There was no bath this morning, but a basin and a ewer of clean water had been left on the dressing table for him, as well as the ball of lavender soap. He washed himself and then looked around for something to wear. To his surprise, he found the clothes he had been wearing the previous night hanging in the armoire. When he pulled out the shirt he found the torn collar had been painstakingly stitched so it was almost good as new. He put it back into the armoire and spent a moment looking through the other garments hanging there; there were a few gowns, each one of them far older than Waylon, they looked to be probably from his parents’ or even grandparents’ generation at least. A couple of nightdresses so fragile they fair crumbled at Waylon’s touch, and a moth-eaten cloak. He wrinkled his nose and closed the door. The first order of the day would be finding someone to clean up his rooms, he decided. He would be damned if he would spend his last days surrounded by dust, spider webs, and dirt. He dressed himself in his own homespun garments which he’d been wearing before he came to the castle. At once he felt more like himself. He left the dressing table and went to the window. He unlatched it and pushed it open, and drew in a lungful of fresh, spring morning air. The sky was blue, the sun was already high in the sky. He must have slept late. His room overlooked an enclosed courtyard garden, with lush green grass and colourful flowers which scented the air even high up in Waylon’s tower. High walls surrounded the garden, and Waylon looked out over a maze of crenellated rooftops and battlements to the forest beyond, the valley below seeming very, very far away. He could see the village, but at this height the buildings looked as tiny as toys. He might as well have been looking at another world. He would never see the outside of this castle again.

 

Washed, dressed, and fed, Waylon left his rooms and went wandering. He made his way downstairs and through a maze of corridors and empty rooms, admiring the fine furniture all swathed in dust. Whatever else the staff here did, cleaning didn’t seem to be among their duties. He descended a grand staircase into a chamber draped with ancient banners, the flags of long-lost warrior clans that had once ruled these lands before the coming of the un-dead. Had they belonged to Gluskin’s kin? Was the vampire descended from the originals owners of the castle or had he taken it from them himself by force and bloodshed?

There was a door set into an alcove on one side of the shadowy chamber. Bright light showed through the cracks around the edge, so Waylon pushed it open. Sure enough, it opened to the outside world. A covered walkway bordered a sizable square of grass, which was cut into here and there with beds of shrubs, herbs, and colourful flowers. When Waylon stepped further into the garden and looked up, he saw that this was the very garden his bedchamber overlooked. He smiled to see his tower window still open, and above the tower the brilliant blue sky dotted with white clouds. It seemed such a departure from the sepulchral gloom of the castle interior, Waylon didn’t quite believe the sight was real.

After a few minutes he realised he was not alone in the garden. As he walked across the grass between the beds, he came across a young man kneeling with his hands wrist-deep in the earth. A pile of pulled weeds lay on the grass beside him. The man didn’t look to be barely more than a boy—Waylon would place him at twenty at most, perhaps younger. He wasn’t as scarred as the other servants Waylon had seen. Waylon approached him and said, “Good morning.”

“Oh!” The boy started and looked up. With wide blue eyes and cropped black hair, at first sight Waylon assumed he was a relation of Gluskin’s, but when he looked closer he saw that that was where the resemblance ended. His youthful features bore no similarity to the vampire lord’s, and the expression upon his face was open and guileless. At the sight of Waylon, the boy immediately started gathering up his weeding, but in his haste managed to drop half of the stalks he picked up.

“Hey, take it easy,” Waylon said. He crouched in front of the boy and helped him to gather up his weeds. “There’s no need to stop what you’re doing just for me.”

“You’re…” The boy stopped and stared at Waylon more closely. He frowned and tilted his head. “You’re _her_? But you’re not a… You’re a-”

“A _he_?” Waylon said with a slight smile. “Yes, I noticed. Fortunately the master hasn’t yet.” He extended his hand. “I’m Waylon, Waylon Park,” he said.

“William Hope,” said the boy, shifting his bundle of weeds to one arm so he could clasp Waylon’s hand. Now that Waylon got a better look at him, he saw that he couldn’t be older than seventeen. He was well built, but still had the telltale gangly limbs of a youth, despite his prematurely lined face. “But everyone calls me Billy.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Billy.” He nodded toward the flowerbed Billy had been working on. It was home to big fluffy hydrangea bushes with a profusion of blue and mauve blossoms. Nearer to the ground, clusters of spring crocuses and daffodils reached for the sun. “These are beautiful. Are they your work?”

Billy nodded, smiling proudly. “Yes sir. Mister Gluskin lets me take care of all of this patch. It’s not as organised as some of the other gardens but it’s got a little bit of everything.”

“I see that. Say, do you need any help?” When Billy looked at him quizzically, Waylon smiled and explained, “I don’t have anything else to do today, and it’s nice to be out in the sunshine. So what do you say? Can you use another pair of hands?”

Billy nodded enthusiastically. “Of course! Here, let’s start with this…” Waylon smiled and listened as Billy instructed on what he wanted help with. He didn’t mind helping the boy with his chores—his home back down in the village had its own garden with an extensive vegetable patch, so he was no stranger to getting his hands dirty. It was honest work, and that would always feel better to him than any amount of pampering or any number of fancy dinners foisted upon him by an un-dead jailer. As he got to work weeding, pruning, and potting, he chatted with the boy who, apart from Gluskin himself, was the friendliest person Waylon had met since coming to the castle.

“Have you lived here long?” he asked as he trimmed wilted shoots from a sprawling clematis growing against the castle wall, butterflies and bees buzzing around his head.

“Oh, all my life,” said Billy.

Waylon struggled to imagine a child growing up in this dreary old castle, no other kids to play with, and, what, a mad old vampire for a guardian? If he had really been kept prisoner in the castle all his life, then Waylon felt sorry for him. He hadn’t been here a full day yet and he was already climbing the walls. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

“Oh, don’t be sorry on my account. Mister Gluskin is good to me. Keeps a roof over my head and food in my belly, lets me work in my gardens, even taught me to read and write. ‘S better than anything I would have got back home.”

Waylon frowned. Billy seemed content with his lot, but Waylon pitied him. “You don’t ever go into the outside world?” he said.

Billy shook his head emphatically. “Oh no. No. It’s safer here in the castle.” He gave Waylon a bright smile. “It’s dangerous out there, but we’re safe in here, Mister Park. You’ll see. Stay here a while longer and you’ll see.”

Waylon guessed Billy had meant it as a reassurance, not a warning, but he still couldn’t shake his unease. The boy thought the danger was _outside_ , even though the very master he seemed so eager to praise was a greater, more immediate threat.

Waylon passed a pleasant morning working in the garden alongside his new friend, until the sun was high in the sky and the companionable silence was disrupted by Billy’s stomach emitting a loud rumble.

Blushing, Billy apologised, and Waylon said, “Maybe that’s a sign to take a break.”

“Maybe,” said Billy, smiling. Waylon helped him gather up his things, but just as he was going to suggest accompanying him into the castle to find something to eat, the boy looked up and froze, nearly dropping all of his equipment. Waylon followed his eyes. There, in a high window, was Dennis, his white face pressed close to the glass as he glared down at them like a spiteful ghost. “Ah, b-better not, Mr. Park,” Billy said, suddenly ducking his head and averting his eyes. The chatty, cheerful boy Waylon had spent the last few hours with was gone just like that, and in his place was a stammering, fearful mess. Without meeting Waylon’s eyes, Billy hurried away, and before Waylon knew it he was alone in the garden. Frowning, he looked back up at the window, but Dennis was nowhere to be seen.

 

He returned to his room to wash the dirt from beneath his nails. When he got there he found another tray had been left for him, this time with a luncheon of cold meats, bread, and fruits. He wondered where Gluskin’s people got all this food from. The village paid a tithe in the form of livestock and produce on top of the sacrifice, but times had been lean for several years, and eating meat two days in a week, let alone three meals in a row, was rare. Waylon was living in a level of luxury previously unknown to him, and he was burning to know how Gluskin managed it. However, if Gluskin thought he could win Waylon over with tasty and exotic foods, he had another thing coming.

After his lunch he left his rooms again and spent the next few hours exploring the castle further. Under the guise of aimless wandering, he mapped the hallways in his mind, and began to sketch out a rough idea of the layout, at least of the wing in which his tower room lay. He was outside and walking the length of a stretch of battlements when a pale figure stepped from the shadows and into his path. He took a step back, at first thinking it was Gluskin despite the bright sunshine, only to recognise none other than Dennis a moment later. He grit his teeth. The man had become his shadow. He sneered at Waylon and said, “Out for a stroll, are we, girly?”

“Yes,” Waylon said. Although his instinct was to back away, he made himself stand his ground. He thought he was getting the measure of Gluskin’s servant a little better now—a man with limited power, who liked to keep that power for himself. He would place himself above Waylon in the pecking order if Waylon let him have his way.

“I wouldn’t get too friendly with that boy if I were you,” Dennis said, then turned his head and spat onto the battlement.

With raised brows, Waylon said, “Oh? You mean Billy? Why?”

“I don’t know how it is back down in that there village o’ yours, but up here a man takes a dim view of his lady talkin’ to other fellas. Some people might get the wrong idea.”

“I’m not a lady,” Waylon said evenly. “Remember?” Dennis looked unimpressed. Gone was the impressionable child Waylon had strong-armed the night before. The man Waylon dealt with now was ornery and spiteful, Waylon could tell at just a glance. He stepped closer. “And besides,” he went on. “I’m standing here talking to you, aren’t I?” He made a show of looking to the left and right, and then spread out his hands. “There’s nobody up here. What _would_ the master say?” Dennis’s face screwed up, spite and disapproval warring with the fear that Waylon spoke true. “Now, if that’s all you had to say about _that_ , I want you to send someone to clean up my rooms. They’re filthy, it doesn’t look like anyone has dusted in there in decades. Oh, and I’d like ink and paper sent up as well, if it isn’t too much trouble.” He graced Dennis with a mild smile.

Dennis snorted. “Oh really? And who’re you writin’ to?”

“That’s none of your concern,” Waylon said, in a tone that was at once polite yet invited no argument. Beaten for now, Dennis scowled and went away muttering. Waylon watched him go. He had thought his biggest problem in offering himself as Gluskin’s sacrifice would be the vampire himself. He hadn’t reckoned on the petty agendas of castle staff, and even though he wasn’t afraid of Dennis something told him he would be a fool to ignore the steward’s manoeuvring. With his mind still half on the morning’s strange encounters, he continued on his tour of the battlements.

 

* * *

 

Midnight came around all too soon. Waylon had spent the late afternoon and evening in his rooms, growing increasingly more anxious until he had taken to pacing back and forth to try to burn off the nervous energy brimming inside him. His stomach was empty and growling when, at about eleven, a fresh bath was brought for him. Once again he stripped and bathed, once again he insisted on doing it himself without aid. He wasn’t used to having anybody wait on him, least of all Gluskin’s strange servants who looked more like gargoyles than men and who barely spoke, and when they did it was in hushed, nonsensical whispers and bursts of unsettling giggles. Once he was clean, Waylon dressed himself in the previous night’s finery, carefully repaired as it was. As he dressed, he considered the man he was going to meet. The master of the castle had never been far from his thoughts throughout the day—his mind had wandered while he’d been working in the garden and as he had walked the walls, returning again and again to Gluskin’s face, his voice, his grip stronger than steel, his breath in Waylon’s hair and his lips upon his skin… He had a handsome face, really, if one forgot the murderous gleam in his eyes and the fact that he was a blood-sucking fiend. Waylon touched the wound on his neck with his fingertips. Those things were not easy to forget.

He checked his reflection one last time, paused to run his fingers through his hair, and then he went to meet the master.

Dennis was waiting outside of his rooms to direct him to the rose garden. How the man knew Waylon and Gluskin’s plans for the evening, Waylon didn’t ask. He didn’t like the idea of him always knowing Waylon’s business and watching him, as he had watched him with Billy in the garden that morning. Fortunately, Dennis had no conversation for him tonight, and, once again, he left Waylon alone once they reached their destination. Waylon stepped out through a set of latticed glass doors into another walled garden, this one smaller than Billy’s colourful patch and made more intimate by a maze of covered walkways and arches, all draped in the prickling vines of climbing roses. Even though it was well past dark, the lingering scent of the roses hung in the air. Somewhere in the depths of the garden, a fountain babbled. When Dennis disappeared, Waylon was left alone on the edge of the rose garden all alone. He stood a moment to see if his host would make himself known. When he did not, Waylon chose one of the openings at random and entered the maze.

The path was roughly paved, with grass and weeds poking through the gaps between the slabs. A trellis wound with roses arced above Waylon’s head, the foliage and profusion of heavy blossoms blocking out the moonlight. Lanterns hung here and there, and their flickering illumination created small islands of golden light amidst the shadows. With nothing else to guide him, Waylon headed towards the sound of the fountain.

He came to a secluded arbour with a bench set back beneath a veil of roses and a small patio, in the centre of which the ornamental fountain flowed, sparkling water splashing down into a little round pool. Before the bench was a round table of white-painted wrought iron with two chairs and a glass top, set with two places. Waylon approached the table. As he reached out for one of the chairs, the shadows beside him took on Gluskin’s imposing form, and the vampire graced him with a predatory smile. “Allow me.”

“Lord Gluskin,” Waylon said. He waited until Gluskin had pulled out his chair before taking a seat. Gluskin liked to play the gentleman everywhere except where it mattered. Tonight’s meal was a roasted haunch of lamb with sprigs of mint, served with roasted spring vegetables. As before, Gluskin watched Waylon eat with relish whilst sipping from a goblet and touching none of the food himself. As nervous as Waylon was, he was too ravenous to resist the delicious meal before him.

“How are you feeling today?” Gluskin said as Waylon began to eat. When Waylon looked at him, his pale face was the picture of friendly concern. His brow was knit with anxiety, his gaze earnest.

“I’m fine, thank you,” said Waylon stiffly. He turned his head slightly, and Gluskin focused upon his un-bandaged neck, the naked wound. “It, er, seems to have healed quickly.”

“It was the least I could do,” said Gluskin.

“How did you…?” Waylon made a vague gesture.

“A little regenerative gift from me to you—while vampire blood has the ability to prolong life indefinitely, a vampire’s saliva can sometimes speed along the healing of a wound.”

Waylon wouldn’t consider Gluskin’s existence life _per se_ , but his words gave him something to think about. Out loud, he said, “I see. Thank you.”

Gluskin smiled, pleased with Waylon’s gratitude. Waylon continued to eat in silence for a few more moments, until Gluskin said, “I hear you met Billy today,”

“The boy in the garden?” said Waylon. “Is he another servant of yours, like Dennis?”

“After a fashion. Poor Billy’s story is rather tragic. He didn’t tell you?” Waylon shook his head. “He comes from a village to the north of here. His father died when he was only a baby. His mother was a foul woman who maintained the boy was possessed by a demon, and as such mistreated him horribly. As a child he was ostracised by his entire village, until a pack of ghouls descended on the village and wiped out every last miserable one of them.” There was a look of satisfaction on Gluskin’s face as he said this. “Billy was the only survivor. I found him wandering in the wilderness and took him in.”

“He wasn’t bitten?” Waylon said with a frown. When Gluskin referred to ghouls, he was talking about the ravening, wild blood-suckers that a true vampire’s victims sometimes became. A kind of half vampire, they existed in the thrall of their vampire masters, but were little more than mindless beasts.

Gluskin shook his head. “A miracle,” he said with a smile.

“So he’s what, your servant? Slave?” Poor kid, Waylon thought. Rescued from one terrible existence straight into another. “If you have all these humans at the castle, what do you need the sacrifices for?”

“My darling, you don’t think I drink from them!” Gluskin gave an incredulous laugh. “They’re like children to me.”

“Children,” said Waylon.

Gluskin actually had the nerve to look hurt. “Each one of those boys is like a member of my own family. Closer, in fact, as my own family was…” His gaze clouded for a moment, and then he lifted his goblet and tossed back a mouthful of what Waylon had decided to call wine. “The sacrifices are a necessary evil.”

“Are they?” said Waylon, a note of anger bleeding into his voice.

“I take the very minimum I can survive on,” said Gluskin. “And in return I protect you and your people-”

“You protect us from more creatures just like you,” Waylon snapped. “But who protects us from _you_?”

“Oh, my poor naive darling,” Gluskin said, shaking his head. “You really have no idea what lurks out there in the night, do you? If you did, you would be grateful. You would offer your throat willingly and thank me for the privilege. You all would.”

“I did offer it willingly,” Waylon said sullenly. “I volunteered to come here, didn’t I?”

“Then why did you run from me?”

Waylon looked away. “I was afraid,” he admitted.

A pause, and then, “Of course. That’s natural…” Gluskin reached across the table, and to Waylon’s shock he covered one of Waylon’s hands with his own. Was he trying to… reassure him? Against his better nature, Waylon did feel soothed by the gesture. “We can work on that, can’t we?” Gluskin’s voice was soft now, little more than a husky whisper. “In time you will learn to come when I need you and offer yourself up so I can take everything I want.” Waylon should have been horrified by Gluskin’s words, but he was distracted by the man’s touch, his cold skin against his own. It lasted only a moment longer and then Gluskin withdrew. Once more sitting erect, formal in his black and starched white, he said, “I wanted to apologise for the way our last dinner together ended.” Waylon fiddled with the corner of his napkin and didn’t reply. After a lengthy pause, Gluskin continued, “You must understand, darling, it had been a very long time since I’d had a drop to drink, and you smelled so very, very good…”

“My blood, you mean?” said Waylon.

Gluskin’s eyes snapped up. All at once Waylon found himself snared. Those eyes, like icy pools, seemed to invite him to sink into their unknowable depths and never emerge again. He leaned forward in his chair.

“Your blood, yes,” Gluskin said. Waylon managed to tear his gaze away from Gluskin’s eyes only to settle on his mouth instead. The vampire’s sharp teeth were hidden by full, artfully formed lips. Waylon had felt those lips against his flesh when Gluskin had bitten him. What would it feel like to have them press against his own?

Why was he thinking like this? He had a wife whom he loved. He had never strayed, _never_ , had never even considered it, even though he could have had his pick of the village women and one or two of the men as well. One night with Gluskin and he was already thinking about kissing him? What on earth had come over him?

“You’re blushing,” Gluskin said softly. Waylon swallowed, snapped back to attention. He felt the blood heating the skin of his cheeks and ears. Gluskin’s eyes had darkened, the pupils widening like those of a cat that’s spotted enticing prey.

“I, er-”

“Will you let me show you how it’s meant to be?”

“…What?”

Gluskin rose and rounded the table. Waylon tensed, ready to run, but Gluskin sank to one knee by his chair and gazed imploringly up at him. He took one of Waylon’s hands in his own, so gently, and said, “I was a beast, I know. I hadn’t meant to be so vulgar, but when the hunger comes upon a man it can be so hard to resist, especially when the prey is so sweet…” He reached up and brushed Waylon’s cheekbone with his knuckle. “I swear to you, from now on I will be a different man.” He stood, and coaxed Waylon to his feet also. “Come…” He led Waylon to the little bench, veiled by roses, and pulled him down onto his lap. Waylon didn’t want to, but he felt powerless to resist. The wound on his neck throbbed, and he leaned unconsciously into Gluskin’s body. One of the vampire’s arms was around his back, cradling him gently. With his other hand he brushed Waylon’s hair back from his face.

“Please don’t,” Waylon whispered. He pressed his hand against Gluskin’s chest and tried to push him away, but Gluskin didn’t even seem to notice. A wave of hopelessness washed over him—it didn’t matter if he struggled, or if he ran, Gluskin would catch him and take what he wanted anyway. If he yielded now, at least he might endure this with some of his dignity intact. Still, it felt important to assert his will somehow, until he remembered—he asked for this. He volunteered. He could have been sitting at home with his wife and sons this very moment, or lying in the bed he shared with Lisa, holding her and sleeping soundly.

Except he wouldn’t have been sleeping soundly, not if he had let that poor girl come here to the castle instead, let Gluskin tear into her tender throat instead, let him suck the life out of her instead.

He closed his eyes, his lashes wet with tears, and exposed his throat. Gluskin cradled his head as gently as if he were about to kiss him. His lips brushed Waylon’s skin, right above his pulse point, and then Waylon felt the graze of his teeth. He couldn’t help it, he jumped, but Gluskin tightened his grip upon him and Waylon forced himself to stay still. One of Gluskin’s hands gripped Waylon’s waist, his thumb making gentle circles. It was all far, far too intimate, and for a terrible moment he _did_ wish it was Susanna—or anyone—here instead of him. Anything to get away from the creature that held him in its clutches, that wore a man’s face and spoke with a gentleman’s voice but couldn’t for one second hide what it truly was, which was a monster.

“Just a sip, my darling,” Gluskin murmured.

Waylon took a deep breath and held it, and Gluskin bit down.

At first there was no pain. Gluskin bit a little above the original wound, and his teeth were so sharp they sank into Waylon’s flesh like needles. The pain came a second or two later, and Waylon whimpered in Gluskin’s arms, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks, but then the stinging sensation morphed into something else, something equally intense but not quite as easy to pin down. It was a sharp kind of pleasure, enjoyable and excruciating all at once. He whined and writhed in Gluskin’s grip, but as Gluskin started to draw the blood from his body he grew weaker, until all he could do was tremble. Soon the pain all but disappeared, and only pleasure remained. It spread out from the point where Gluskin’s fangs pierced him, moving in rippling waves until his whole body throbbed with sensation. He arched his back, his eyes closed and his lips parted in a gasp of ecstasy. His face felt hot, his body was on fire. The pit of his belly tightened, his hips undulated, and he grabbed at Gluskin’s shirt, pulling at it, almost tearing. It was too much, too much to bear, he couldn’t take it, he was about to-

Gluskin withdrew his teeth and Waylon let out a frustrated cry, sobbing at being brought so close to the brink only to be left dangling. A moment later he came to his senses, and realised he was draped in the man’s lap, clutching at his chest and begging with every movement and breath to be allowed to come under Gluskin’s touch.

He launched himself out of Gluskin’s lap and onto his feet. The dizziness hit him at once, and with his remaining blood rushing in his ears he tried to stagger toward one of the dining chairs, only to fall before he could reach it.

Gluskin caught him before he could hit the ground.

“Careful,” he said softly, and lifted Waylon up as easily as if he really were a young maiden swooning over her bridegroom.

“Let go of me,” Waylon said weakly.

“You didn’t… You didn’t like it?” Gluskin sounded hurt, but when Waylon looked up at him all he could see was a mouth full of sharp, elongated teeth and lips shiny red with blood.

“You’re a monster,” Waylon whispered. He tried once again to push free from Gluskin’s grip, but the vampire didn’t allow it. He carried Waylon out of the fragrant rose garden and back towards the castle. Before he reached the glass doors he enveloped them both in shadow, just as he had done in the village church when he had first stolen Waylon away, and a moment later they were in a warm, dimly lit room. Waylon was laid down upon soft cushions, and he watched in horror as Gluskin hovered above him and traced the line of his cheekbone with one fingertip. “Don't...”

“Perhaps this is all too much excitement for you, my love,” Gluskin breathed. Waylon’s blood was still on his mouth, and it was all Waylon could look at. “Rest. The next time, you will be stronger, and each time will be easier after that. But first, let me…” He leaned down. Waylon put his hands up to stop him, but he was too weak. Gluskin half covered Waylon’s body with his own, and for a moment Waylon thought he would bite him again, but instead he did something far worse—he kissed him. Not on the lips, but over the fresh bite, where warm blood still ran from the red punctures in Waylon’s skin. Gluskin pressed his lips to Waylon’s neck in a light, chaste kiss, but then returned open-mouthed and lapped at the seeping blood with his tongue. Waylon’s body, still confused from the pleasure of the bite, responded to this new intimacy as if to the touch of a lover.

A few more minutes of kisses and licks, and Gluskin lifted his head. The blood on his mouth was smudged now, and his eyes glittered in the light of the candles dotted around the room. He had colour in his face for the first time since Waylon had seen him, and his pupils were blown. It didn’t take much to guess he was in a similar state to Waylon. Waylon wanted to knock that lustful look off his face. He also wanted very much to kiss him.

“There,” Gluskin said, and his voice was roughened with need. “It will be healed by morning.” He paused, and seemed to lose his train of thought as he stared down at Waylon’s face, drinking up the sight of him if he couldn’t drink any more of his blood. “You’re already so beautiful,” he whispered. “It’s amazing, I never thought…” He stopped himself mid-thought and made to move away. Waylon was surprised to find his own fingers hooked into the collar of Gluskin’s shirt. He tugged him back down again, and it was as though someone else was acting through him—he watched himself in disbelief as he pulled the vampire toward him for a kiss.

Gluskin’s lips were warm. Waylon’s blood had warmed them, and his mouth tasted like copper. Gluskin groaned, trembling with the effort of holding himself back. The kiss remained but a gentle press of lips and then Gluskin rose, leaving Waylon reaching after him, breathless and hungry for more.

“In time, my darling,” Gluskin said hoarsely. His hair had come askew, its neat black stripe mussed so that a few inky locks fell forward across his brow. He took a couple of steps back, as though needing to put space between himself and Waylon, as though Waylon were a threat. His teeth were so long they pressed against the fullness of his lower lip. “We… we shouldn’t rush…” Waylon mastered himself enough to push his body upright. Sitting up on what he now saw to be a velvet chaise strewn with silken pillows, he watched Gluskin. He looked aroused, yes, but also agitated. “You should go,” Gluskin said, and then pressed his hand over his mouth and turned away. Waylon stood carefully, blood loss making him still unsteady, and took a few steps towards him. He reached out, curious. At the first brush of his fingertips against one massive shoulder, Gluskin rounded on him with an animal snarl, bloody teeth bared, and lunged for him. Waylon threw himself backwards, tripped, and sprawled across the floor. “I said _go_!” Gluskin roared.

Waylon withdrew, but he didn’t leave—not because he especially wanted to stay, but because his legs felt like jelly and the room was spinning like he was about to faint. He couldn’t have got up if he tried, let alone run. For a moment it looked like Gluskin would really kill him. He had no doubt he could tear him apart. Waylon curled up into a ball and covered his head with his arms.

Nothing happened.

When he eventually dared to look up, he saw Gluskin standing a few feet away just staring at him. His teeth were bared in a grimace that looked almost like a smile, his eyes wide and unnaturally bright in the gloom. He didn’t know how long they remained like that, it seemed an age but it could have been only moments. However long it was, eventually some of the terrible tension drained out of Gluskin’s frame, the monstrous mask that was his face relaxed, and he turned away once more. Across the room was a bureau with a chair, and Gluskin sank into the chair now and sat with his head in his hands.

Gingerly, Waylon got first to his knees, and then his feet. He didn’t think Gluskin would attack him again. The crisis was past, and as the fear waned, Waylon felt himself getting angry.

“Was that how it’s supposed to be?” he said. “Because to me that didn’t feel all that different.”

A silence, and then Gluskin said, through his hands, “I’m so sorry, darling. I… I thought I had more control over myself than this. I don’t know what came over me.”

Waylon was not moved to pity. “Is it always like this?” he asked, referring to Gluskin’s other “brides”. He would have drunk from them too, probably courted them in just the same way. Did Gluskin lose control like this every time? If so, he didn’t know how any of the girls lasted long.

To his surprise, Gluskin shook his head. “No,” he said mournfully. “Never.”

“I’m honoured,” Waylon said, feeling anything but. “At this rate you’ll need to pick a new sacrifice after all, I doubt I’ll even last the week.”

Gluskin lifted his head and glared at Waylon through narrowed eyes. “Don’t use that tone with me, you little slut. This is your fault!”

Taken aback, Waylon snapped, “How is this _my_ fault?”

“Well what else could it be?” Gluskin rose to his feet, the sheer mass of him forcing Waylon to stumble backwards. God, he was tall. And broad. Waylon’s gaze travelled down his body briefly before snapping back to his face. “You tease and tempt me, you _want_ me to lose control, you wanton whore. Why do you smell so good? And your taste, oh god! I’ve never experienced anything like it. Is that why you really came here, hmm? To drive me mad?”

“You don’t need any help with that,” Waylon said. He folded his arms and scowled. “You know why I came here. Now let’s make something very clear—I’m here for one purpose only, and I don’t plan to renege on that agreement. But anything else is off the table. That means no more intimate dinners, no more pretending we’re courting, no more talk about me being your bride. Don’t dress this up into anything it’s not. It’s disgraceful, it’s _vulgar_.” Gluskin recoiled as though Waylon had slapped him. “If you’re going to keep blood slaves at least have the balls to own up to it.” Waylon was shaking with anger, and he was grateful for that rage because it stopped him from sorting through the rest of the muddle of his feelings and thoughts. “I’m going back to my rooms now. You know I can’t do anything if you decide to stop me, but I’m going to try anyway. It’s late, I’m fucking tired, and I’d like to make it back to my bed before I pass out.”

He turned, found the door, and walked toward it. Before he left he paused, and said over his shoulder, “Thank you for the dinner. Goodnight.”

He heard a murmured “Goodnight” from Gluskin, and then he was out the door and striding along an unfamiliar hallway with the last of his adrenaline-fuelled energy.

Gluskin let him leave.

By some miracle, he made it into a familiar stretch of hallway before his strength completely left him, and he managed to stagger back to his rooms without fainting along the way. When he reached his rooms he closed and bolted the door, let down the curtains around his bed, and crawled beneath the blankets. He noticed absently that the linens had been changed, and smelled fresh and clean. He pulled the blankets up over his head and curled into a ball. Tears stung his eyes and formed a painful lump in the back of his throat. As outraged as he was humiliated, he vowed that this was the last and only time he offered himself to Gluskin willingly. He had thought it would be better this way, to make the choice and keep some dignity, but he had been wrong. It had been worse, so much worse. His cheeks still burned, and his body was hot and languid with remembered pleasure—pleasure that was unwanted, unsought, unclean. It was said that a human could fall under a vampire’s spell if the creature wished it, could be compelled to do all sorts of unnatural actions. Could a vampire compel feelings as well? Waylon simply didn’t know. He had read every book in the village, being one of the few in the village who _could_ read, and learned all he could from the stories and legends people passed down by mouth as well, but the sum total of his knowledge on the monsters who ruled the land was nothing when actually faced with one of their kind. He hoped against hope it was so, because then, even if he were still helpless to resist the vampire’s compulsion, at least that was better than the alternative—that his own mind and body had betrayed him, and the desire that had awoken inside him was his own.


	3. Visions

The morning after his disastrous dinner with Lord Gluskin in the rose garden, Waylon slept in late and awoke to the lingering sent of roses. At first, cocooned within his curtained bed, he thought the memories of the night before were simply hanging around, muddling his senses, until he drew back his bed curtains to find his room decked all over with roses. Vases and garlands of cut flowers competed for space with pots of living plants, a riot of different colours and sizes, and the sweet scent so overwhelmingly strong it made Waylon gag. Waylon shot up out of the bed and ran to the window, threw it open, and hung his head outside. He gulped in lungfuls of the fresh morning air, and then turned back to the room.

Someone had been in during the night and filled his room with flowers. The door was still bolted. There was only one person who could have entered a locked room without anyone the wiser—Gluskin. The idea of the vampire being in his room while he slept sent chills down Waylon’s spine. Tucked into every bouquet was a card, and on each card was written the same message:

 

_Forgive me, my darling._

 

He unbolted the door and strode out, yelling, “Dennis!”

The steward appeared before Waylon had gone beyond the first hallway, watching Waylon with a sly look. “Yes, Lady Gluskin?”

Waylon paused only a moment. Who was Dennis today, Waylon wondered? This sounded like a voice he hadn’t met before. “Please have someone clear the flowers out of my room as soon as possible,” he said brusquely.

“Flowers?” Dennis blinked, and Waylon saw that he had really surprised him. That only confirmed Waylon’s instinct—if any of the staff had been responsible for placing the roses, he was sure Dennis would know about it. Therefore it had to have been the master himself.

If Gluskin wouldn’t hesitate to enter Waylon’s chamber while he slept, what was stopping him from taking a drink while he was there? Waylon wouldn’t even be aware of it. It didn’t matter how many locks he put on the door, this was Gluskin’s castle and he could go wherever he pleased.

Dennis recovered himself quickly and said, “Yes, Mistress. Right away.” He bobbed a little bow and went off, presumably to round up a couple of boys to cart an entire roomful of roses away to be composted. Gluskin must have stripped the entire rose garden. Well, it wouldn’t do him any good, Waylon thought. If he meant to win Waylon over with romantic gestures, he would very soon learn he was wasting his time.

 

The flowers that first morning were only the beginning. As the following days passed, more flowers found their way into Waylon’s room, or into the corridor outside, to line the hallway with sweetly perfumed blossoms. Then the flowers started to come with gifts—elaborate necklaces and rings, pretty ornaments, a luxurious velvet cloak in rich brown and embroidered in amber, and suit after suit of fine clothing, all in expensive fabrics and embroidered by hand. Each time, Waylon summoned Dennis or another of the servants and demanded they return the gifts to their master, and stubbornly continued to wear his own homespun and daring Gluskin to confiscate it. And as if that weren’t enough, Gluskin was still trying to get him to meet with him again. Each morning Waylon received a handwritten invitation to dine that evening with the master, and each evening Waylon resolutely bolted himself in his bedroom and went hungry instead.

This continued until one night, when Waylon had already retired for the evening and resigned himself to a long, lonely night with a rumbling stomach, there came a knock on his door. He was sitting at the dressing table, where he had been trying to compose a letter to Lisa without much success. The door was bolted, and he glared at it for a moment, expecting at any moment for Gluskin to override the rules of propriety and phase into the room in spite of the barrier. Instead, the knock came again, and then a voice outside whispered, “Mister Park? Mister Park, it’s me, Billy.”

“Billy?” Waylon got up and crossed to the door. He unbolted and opened it. Sure enough, Waylon’s young gardener friend was there, holding a tray covered with a chequered cloth. “What..? What can I do for you?”

“I brought you some food, Mister Park,” Billy said. “I know you’ve been skipping dinner these past couple weeks but Cook said he’s sick of making lavish meals nobody eats. I mean, it’s not so bad because _we_ get to eat them, but he said that’s not the point…”

“I haven’t met the Cook, have I?” said Waylon. He took the tray from Billy and motioned with his head for the boy to come in. Billy entered, wringing his fingers together, and Waylon pushed the door shut after him with his toe. He set the tray down on the dressing table and withdrew the cloth. Underneath was a plate with cuts of some kind of roasted foul with mixed vegetables all in a creamy, herby sauce, a hunk of dense bread, and a small dish of apricots. The food was a little cold, but still looked wonderful. Waylon’s stomach growled, and he laughed sheepishly. “This looks delicious,” he said. “But you needn’t have worried about me.”

“Of course we worry,” said Billy. “Everyone likes you.”

Waylon blinked. “They do?”

Nodding, Billy said, “You’re always nice to me, and you’re friendly to the others when you speak to them. Everyone likes having you here, you know.” He was smiling and shaking his head, as though Waylon should have known this already. True, he did go out of his way to be polite and thoughtful to the servants, even though their appearance and mannerisms unnerved him—it was against his nature to be waited on at all, and he supposed he pitied them. Besides, he figured they were all of them locked up together with the same monster. Shortly after his first day, he had learned that many of the boys and men working at the castle had similar stories to Billy. All were outcasts or pariahs in some way, many were or had been ill or orphaned. Gluskin had collected them like refuse and set them to work.

“I suppose I never thought about it like that. Here, won’t you share it with me?”

Billy looked longingly at the tray but then shook his head. “No, don’t worry about me. It’s yours. Everyone wants you to be strong and healthy so you stay a long time.”

_So I stay_ alive, _you mean_ , thought Waylon, but he didn’t say it out loud. It would have spoiled Billy’s kind gesture.

“Well, I’m very grateful,” he said.

Pleased that his errand had been a success, Billy smiled and bowed, and then said, “Goodnight, Mister Park.” Waylon saw him out, and then sat down at the dressing table to demolish his dinner.

During those weeks, Waylon barely slept. He walked around in the day time looking like he was already a member of the un-dead, with dark shadows beneath his eyes and sallow skin, growing more and more unfocused after each sleepless night. Billy continued to secretly deliver Waylon his evening meals, apparently unbeknownst to both the castle’s steward and its master. Each time Waylon saw Billy, the boy expressed his concern at Waylon’s visibly worsening condition. “You can’t go on like this, Mister Park,” he told him, but Waylon just shrugged and laughed it off. How could he tell him that he was afraid of falling asleep in case the master Billy always spoke so well of crept into his room at night and bit him—or worse?

He managed to hold out for a few more days before he lost his battle against exhaustion. Lying his tired body down on the lavish bed with its lace coverlet, he told himself he would only rest for a few minutes, only enough to rest his sore, dry eyes.

He wasn’t aware of the moment he fell asleep. He wasn’t aware he was asleep. In his dream he was also lying in his bed, its red curtains drawn around it to create an intimate, stifling enclosure. As he stared up at the dark crimson canopy above, he became absolutely convinced he was not alone. He couldn’t see anyone, but the longer he lay there the more sure of it he became. His body felt heavy as lead, and he breathed shallowly, hoping to be quiet enough so the intruder would not detect him. The shadows swam before his eyes, then solidified. Blue eyes shone out of the darkness, and a white smile gleamed. Waylon tried to flee but he couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak. He closed his eyes as Gluskin’s shadowy form descended upon him, tilting his head back as if on instinct to give the vampire his throat.

But Gluskin didn’t bite.

What followed was a muddled series of impressions, of Gluskin’s hands running all over Waylon’s body, cold against hot; of his mouth on his throat, sucking and placing teasing bites too light to break the skin. Suddenly Waylon could move again, but he didn’t flee. Instead he wrapped himself around Gluskin’s body and warmed him up. In the dream Waylon was not disgusted, as he would have been were he awake. No, dream Waylon responded to his un-dead groom’s affections with matching ardour, and submitted gladly to his possessive touch. Gluskin’s hands were everywhere. Waylon’s lips parted beneath Gluskin’s kisses, and he melted under the heated intensity of his desire. Kisses and touches became more insistent, and yet more intimate. Places no one but Waylon’s wife had any business touching were bared, Waylon was spread out beneath his master, and just as helpless to resist as he had been that night in the rose garden.

“But wait… wait,” Waylon managed to say, reason trying to win through even in the confusion of the dream. The ceremony had been postponed, their union was not complete. “We’re… we’re still not married yet in the eyes of god…”

“Oh, my sweet, innocent darling,” Gluskin crooned as he parted Waylon’s thighs and settled himself between. “God hasn’t turned his eyes upon the likes of me in a long, long time.”

 

Waylon awoke drenched in sweat and with his sheets tangled around his arms and legs. The insistent ache between his legs made him groan and roll over in shame, but that only led to him rubbing himself against the bed in a disgraceful effort to relieve the pressure. He rolled back onto his back and flung the sheets and blankets away, and then lay for a while with his hands over his eyes as he tried to even out his breathing and to will away the erection that as yet showed no sign of going down. He tried to remind himself of his loving wife, but that only made it worse. Memories of intimate moments with Lisa only blurred into the lingering, fevered images of his dreams, stoking the fires of his lust higher rather than quenching them. He keened and tore at his hair. Through a crack in his bed curtains he could see that it was still dark—the room was bathed in the rich, undersea blue of pre-dawn. He still had some time before any of the servants came with his breakfast or, worse, more gifts from the groom. He bit his lip. It felt wrong to touch himself with such thoughts in his mind—he tried to focus on Lisa again instead, this time screwing up his brow in concentration as he tried to remember the last time they were together. He pictured her striking face, her dark, soulful eyes and her thick, lustrous hair. Her voice, the way she laughed, the soft way she touched him… He slid his hand down his body and wrapped it around his length. He could do this, he thought. It wasn’t bad if he was thinking of Lisa, and if he kept his mind well away from any thoughts of _him_ … He found a rhythm and started to relax. This was fine. There was nothing wrong with this—he was away from home and missing his wife, that was all. It was natural that his body would make its needs known like this. It was perfectly normal. He stroked himself faster, and that was when his fantasies took a wrong turn. As he relaxed into the pleasure, his mind wandered inexorably back to his unwanted dream lover. Lisa’s soft voice became deeper, her hands harder, her touch colder. Before he knew it, he was reliving the encounter in the rose garden, only this time it didn’t stop at a bite. He imagined Gluskin slipping his icy hands beneath his clothes, touching him—in his imagination, the vampire was an expert lover who handled Waylon’s body with smooth finesse, manipulating him to new heights of pleasure whilst watching him with those intense blue eyes, fangs gleaming in a smile as Waylon came undone in his lap.

He knew this was wrong. He knew it, but by now he was too caught up to control the sinful fantasies his mind supplied him with. He stroked himself harder and faster, almost enough to hurt, and his other hand came up to cover the two bite marks upon his neck. Just as he was about to climax, the phantom Gluskin in his mind gazed down at him with pride and said, “That’s it, my darling. You know who you belong to, don’t you? Come now, my little pet. _Come_.”

Afterwards he was overcome with shame. He curled onto his side, breathing hard, and covered his head with a pillow. He never wanted to face anyone again. How could he ever look his wife in the eyes after this? Worse still, how would he manage to face Gluskin again?

From that day on he slept only in fits and starts, not wanting to risk falling into that kind of deep, dangerous sleep again, but try as he might, the dreams persisted. His existence became a new kind of hell as he spent his days walking the halls and gardens of the castle in a sleep-deprived stupor, always glancing over his shoulder and jumping at shadows, convinced he was being watched, sure that every shadow was Gluskin about to materialise out of thin air to offer him another accursed gift; his nights were spent trying to fend off sleep that, when it inevitably claimed him, was filled with more lustful dreams. The master of the castle violated Waylon in a new way each night in his dreams, and Waylon awoke each morning red-faced and mortified at the depraved depths to which his own imagination could sink. The mornings brought more gifts and invitations from Gluskin, love notes containing increasingly groveling apologies and entreaties to meet with him. Waylon didn’t know why Gluskin was bothering. If he wanted to see Waylon there was nothing stopping him; Waylon knew a locked door wouldn’t keep him out. He wondered how long Gluskin’s gentlemanly facade would hold out against the maddening hunger he was cursed with. Waylon would rather be hunted down and ripped to pieces than participate again in the mockery of civility Gluskin insisted on. One didn’t take tea and cakes with a ravenous wolf, and one didn’t engage in polite dinner conversation with a vampire.

As he grew more tired and more hopeless, he took to staying in his room and seldom venturing out, not even to visit Billy in his garden. He would watch him from the window instead, whiling away the days in the sunshine without a care in the world. Shut up in his tower, Waylon spent hours gazing past the garden, past the castle walls, all the way to the village in the valley far below, and gradually sinking deeper and deeper into misery. What did it matter if he never left this room again? The luxurious chamber—which had been cleaned and updated as per his demand and was now kept spotless and constantly scented with fresh flowers—might as well be a foetid cell for all the difference it made to Waylon’s freedom. He could not leave the castle, and he refused to humiliate himself by making himself agreeable to his jailer. If Gluskin wanted to keep a prisoner, then that was what Waylon would be.

As yet more days and nights passed, something strange began to happen. Worn down by isolation and boredom, Waylon found himself looking forward to sunset. He didn’t want to sleep, he didn’t want to dream—and yet the erotic fantasies provided a break from the monotony of his days, and he shocked himself by beginning to almost look forward to them. Soon this fantasy version of Lord Gluskin invaded his waking thoughts as well. He found himself daydreaming of cold hands and soft lips long before the sun had even begun to set. After one such day spent tormented by fevered imaginings he fell into a restless sleep, only to awake hours later, deep in the night, once again soaked in sweat and panting hard. Instantly disgusted and outraged at himself, he sprang up from the bed and paced back and forth. How dare Gluskin do this to him? Was Waylon doomed to never have a peaceful night’s sleep again? It was bad enough Gluskin had crept into his dreams each night, he had no right to worm his way into Waylon’s waking mind as well! The man seemed hellbent on invading every aspect of Waylon’s life, of his very being. It wasn’t enough to steal him away from his home and his family and violate his body by sucking the very blood from his veins—no, Gluskin had to _seduce_ his _bride_ as well. Because, Waylon was certain, that had to be what was happening. There was no way these scenarios and sensations could be coming from Waylon’s own mind. He would never be so depraved as to desire a corpse. No, it had to be the next phase of Gluskin’s courtship. His gifts and little love notes had failed, so now he was using his unnatural powers to send Waylon disturbing visions designed to wear down his defences and drive him to his wits’ end—and into the vampire’s arms. Well, Waylon would be putting a stop to that at once!

The only problem was, as he strode angrily through a corridor some ten minutes later, he had no idea where Gluskin’s chambers were.

That took some of the wind out of his sails, but he wasn’t willing to return to his room in defeat just yet. It was deep in the night, and the castle was quiet. Waylon was dressed in only his nightshirt, but he hadn’t crossed paths with anybody yet. He continued to wander barefoot. He had somehow taken a turn into an unfamiliar part of the castle again—the damned place just seemed to keep getting bigger—and found himself in a long hallway with wood panelled walls hung with dark portraits. Lamps burned at intervals along the walls. It was dark and eerily quiet. Too quiet.

He already knew who he would see when he turned around.

“How did you know I was here?” Waylon said.

“I sensed you,” Gluskin replied. He stood a few paces away, half in shadow. He was impeccably dressed as always, all buttoned up as if he were going to a formal dinner rather than haunting the halls of his own home. He placed a hand over his heart. “I am aware of you at all times, my love. We are connected.”

Waylon flushed, remembering the fury that had spurred him out of his bedchamber in the middle of the night. “I wanted to talk to you about that,” he said.

“There’ll be time for that,” said Gluskin, holding out his hand. “But you must be cold.” Waylon glanced down at himself, only just now remembering that he still wore only his nightshirt which, being damp, had become slightly translucent. A cold draft breezed through the corridor, causing goosebumps to pebble his skin. “Come, let’s get you warmed up.”

With some trepidation, Waylon took Gluskin’s hand. Gluskin didn’t dematerialise as Waylon expected, but instead tucked Waylon’s hand into the crook of his elbow, and they walked arm in arm until they reached a door a short distance away, which Gluskin held open and ushered Waylon through.

Waylon’s jaw dropped as he entered the room. It was a large chamber with a high ceiling and huge windows draped with forest green velvet. A cosy fire burned in a hearth flanked by comfortable looking chairs. The walls were lined with shelf upon shelf of books and scrolls. It was more books than Waylon had read in his life, and as the only scholar in the village he had read everything he could get his hands on. His hands itched to start pulling leather-bound tomes from shelves and seeing what Gluskin’s library had to offer. However, while it was clear the room had originally been built as a place for reading and reflection, it had been taken over by another pastime. A large oak desk was strewn with swatches of fabric, neat spindles of thread, and scattered piles of parchment upon which were inked figures in elaborate and painstakingly detailed ensembles. Wickerwork dress forms were positioned around the workstation, each wearing ladies’ gowns in varying stages of completion. Waylon wandered closer, and saw that the drawings nearer the top of the pile all featured a slender model with masculine proportions and a shock of blond hair.

“I didn’t know you were an artist,” Waylon commented.

Gluskin came up behind him. “You like them?” he said softly. They were beautiful, and when Waylon leafed through the sketches he thought he recognised some of the outfits he had sent back as rejected courting gifts, but he didn’t want to admit it to Gluskin. He held his tongue. Gluskin said, “Painting and drawing is a side hobby. My true passion is the clothes. Oh, but I’ve never found a muse quite like you before. I would dress you in all the finest fabrics from all over the world, you would look like a queen. It’s a crime I’ve let you go so long without providing you a proper _trousseau_. I estimated your measurements, but perhaps I made a mistake, since nothing has been, ah, _suitable_ yet. Let me take note of them now and we can rectify the situation.”

“I won’t wear a dress,” Waylon said quickly, even as he fingered the edge of a beautiful swathe of stiff, thick silk. It was so rich he would have expected to see it worn by royalty, not draped on a model in the forgotten castle of an eccentric vampire, going to waste.

“Are you sure?” said Gluskin as he picked up a measuring tape from the desk. “You would look ravishing in silks. The violet, or perhaps the gold.” He held up a bolt of cloth that shimmered like the sunrise. In spite of himself, Waylon blushed. “Please, let me…? Just to indulge me.”

“I… I don’t know…” Waylon had wanted to talk to him about something, it had been important. He glanced up and met the vampire’s sparkling eyes and found himself smiling along with him. Then the memories of a hundred erotic dreams flitted through his mind and he blushed anew, turning away now as even the tips of his ears turned red. None of it had been real. It had all been dreams, all shadows, and the intimacy he felt with the real man in front of him was nothing but an illusion.

“You’re irresistible when you blush, darling,” Gluskin sighed. “Here, you see? It looks wonderful with your colouring.” Waylon looked away as Gluskin held the silken fabric up against his cheek. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Here in the cosy firelight of the library, Waylon’s earlier certainty that Gluskin had been seducing him in his dreams every night seemed absurd. He couldn’t believe he had been about to accuse him of something so ridiculous. As Gluskin moved around his body taking measurements with businesslike competence, Waylon had to face the truth that he had been the originator of those dreams himself. Any other explanation was purely ludicrous, and not to mention impossible. He couldn’t possibly admit that he had spent each night for the last few weeks plagued by his own over-active imagination, supplying lurid images of he and Gluskin together. God knew what he would think of him. So he kept his head down and his mouth shut.

“I’ve missed you,” Gluskin said as he wrapped the tape around Waylon’s waist and cinched it tight, then noted the figure on a corner of parchment on the desk. “You haven’t agreed to see me in weeks.”

“No, I… I needed some time…”

“I understand, but darling, I’ve been so lonely. I think of you all the time. Even in my dreams, you haunt me.”

Waylon’s head snapped up. “In your… dreams?”

Gluskin smiled. He leaned close to wrap the measure around Waylon’s hips. Suddenly Waylon’s nightshirt felt far too short. His breath hitched in his throat as Gluskin’s fingertips brushed him. “Why yes. Can you blame a man for dreaming of his beloved night and day?”

“And what… kind of dreams do you have about me?” Waylon said slowly. He hoped Gluskin hadn’t noticed his blush, but he knew he had.

Now Gluskin’s smile became a grin, displaying his full set of pointed fangs. “Well, now,” he said slowly. “I couldn’t tell _that_ to a lady.”

“I see.” So Gluskin had been dreaming of him too? Well, of course he had. He was a lecher and a predator.

Gluskin finished taking Waylon’s measurements and, indicating the fine silks, said, “Let me make you a gift of this. I can make such a beautiful gown, oh darling, you’ll look breathtaking-”

“No more gifts,” said Waylon. “Please.”

“You’ve returned every one I’ve sent you,” said Gluskin, but he sounded amused. “Wilful minx, I haven’t had to work this hard for anything in centuries.”

“Aren’t you angry?”

“Tsk. Were you trying to make me angry? I think maybe you were.” He looped the measuring tape around Waylon’s waist and tugged him close so that their bodies were flush against one another. “Hasn’t anybody told you it isn’t wise to provoke a vampire?”

“What have I got to lose?” Waylon said sullenly.

To his surprise, a look of pain passed over Gluskin’s face. “You could live a long and full life here,” he said. “You don’t have to be a prisoner in your tower. I want more than just a source of blood, you know. If that was all I wanted, I could venture out and prey on whoever I liked.” He wrinkled his nose, as though the concept was distasteful to him—him, a vampire! “I could perhaps subsist on animal blood if I really tried… But what I want even more than your precious blood is companionship. Eternity gets so lonely…” He ran the backs of his knuckles gently over the bite marks on Waylon’s neck. They were neat little rings, one above the other. They didn’t hurt any more, but they were sensitive to touch, and the graze of Gluskin’s fingers over them caused Waylon to shiver. “I want you to stay with me forever. It’s what you agreed to, whether you realised it or not. We are bound together now, for all eternity.”

“Wh…what?”

Gluskin cradled the back of Waylon’s head with one hand and leaned over him. His dark lashes were lowered as he gazed at Waylon’s face, slowly, as though analysing and memorising every feature. “It’s what I’ve been searching for, all these long centuries. Not just a bride, but a _mate_ , a companion to stay by my side for the rest of time. Someone to keep and cherish and lavish all my useless riches on, someone tolove! And, dare I say it, love me in return. Someone who will never, ever leave me.”

Waylon couldn’t believe it, although it was clear Gluskin believed his own lies. A vampire wasn’t any more capable of love than any other corpse, no more capable of tender affection as a rabid beast. Suddenly the situation Waylon had placed himself in was far worse than he had thought. He could submit to being the vampire’s blood slave, given enough time to adjust to the indignity, but what Gluskin was asking of him now was impossible, totally impossible. Panic opened up like a pit beneath him, about to swallow him whole. He grabbed onto Gluskin’s jacket to steady himself.

“Here, darling… You look pale.” Gluskin helped Waylon to one of the soft chairs by the fire. He knelt down in front of him, held Waylon’s hands in one of his own and pressed his other hand to Waylon’s brow. “Are you quite well?”

“I don’t… I don’t feel… I think I’m going to be sick.”

“You haven’t been eating properly,” Gluskin scolded. He pushed Waylon’s hair back from his forehead. “I’ve overwhelmed you again. Oh, love, you’re trembling.” He rubbed Waylon’s hands between his own. He turned his head a fraction and looked towards the door. “Dennis! Get the lady something to eat, can’t you see she’s starving?”

Waylon turned around quickly. He had thought they were alone, and hadn’t heard the steward approach, but there he was, lurking in the shadowy doorway with eyes like gimlets, thick brows drawn low above them. He moved off without a word, presumably to obey his lord’s command. Could Waylon go nowhere to get away from him?

He tried to breathe and focus on the more pressing issue. Dennis was unimportant. What was important was figuring out how he was going to get through this. Could he pretend to love the beast? If he did, if he could put on a convincing act, what then? He replayed Gluskin’s words in his mind. _Bound together, for all eternity._

“You want to change me,” Waylon whispered.

“It’s my dearest hope,” Gluskin replied. Waylon stared at him. He had stopped shaking now and the weight of his terrible fate settled upon his shoulders, making him slump. While there were always some few humans whose greatest wish was to join the vaunted ranks of the un-dead who ruled over the living throughout the land, and who usually lost their own lives chasing that dream, as far as Waylon knew most rational humans feared and hated their vampiric overlords. “As soon as I met you in the church I knew you were special, and every moment I spend with you only makes me sure that you’re the one.”

“I… don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t need to say anything, darling. I understand.” He gave Waylon a glowing smile, only ruined somewhat by his fangs, and squeezed Waylon’s hands. “But you needn’t worry. I won’t change you until you’re ready, my love. We have to do this right. You’re going to be _perfect_.”

Waylon managed a weak smile. There wasn’t anything he wanted less than to become a soulless vampire. He would rather die.

Gluskin gently pulled Waylon to his feet, before sinking into the other chair and pulling Waylon into his lap. As Gluskin urged him to snuggle against him, Waylon was struck with wondering why this felt so comfortable, so right. He rested his head against Gluskin’s shoulder even as he wished he had never even set eyes on him.

“Why aren’t I afraid of you?” he asked, as he watched the flames dance within the grate.

Gluskin once again traced the scars on Waylon’s neck. “It’s because of these,” he said. “They mark you as mine. You’re not afraid because you recognise my claim.” His voice was filled with pride. Waylon didn’t understand it, but he was tired, so tired. It was so hard to think straight. “So you see, my dearest darling, we were meant to be together.”

Waylon looked up at the vampire’s face and tried to resist getting lost once again in those blue eyes—eyes that he had seen filled with passion again and again in his dreams. “Lord Gluskin-”

“Please, call me Edward,” Gluskin said. He stroked Waylon’s cheek, and then he dipped his head and brushed his lips against Waylon’s. “Please, darling,” he murmured. “You don’t need to lock yourself away, my love. Just give me a chance. I can make all your dreams come true.”

The surge of lust that pulsed through Waylon’s body was like an ache, an actual pain of longing. He let out a shaky breath and clutched at Gluskin’s clothes. “Ah, yes,” Gluskin purred. “You like that.”

He didn’t know, did he? How could he know? Waylon racked his brains; had he given anything away? Surely Gluskin didn’t know what depraved things he had dreamed about him for weeks? Beneath his flimsy nightshirt, Waylon’s arousal was plain to see. He wanted to hide for shame, but there was nowhere to hide, so he pressed his face against Gluskin’s chest and curled in on himself.

“No, no, darling don’t hide.” Gluskin’s hands on him were gentle, one caressed his hair while the other stroked up and down his thigh. “You don’t need to hide from me.”

“But I… but it’s-”

“Vulgar? Yes, I suppose it is, but how could I ever begrudge my bride her desires?” Very slowly, his hand found its way beneath the hem of Waylon’s short nightshirt and began to creep upwards. His voice dropped an octave and took on a rough, growling tone. “Admit it. There’s an emptiness inside you that aches to be filled.” His hand slid around Waylon’s hip, the fabric of his nightshirt bunching up at his waist, exposing him to the empty library. “You’ve always felt it, but never known how to make it better. Am I right?” Still pressed against Gluskin’s chest, Waylon flushed, screwed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to hear this, just as he didn’t want to feel this unnatural heat; and he most of all didn’t want to think Gluskin was right.

Fortunately, he was saved by an unlikely rescuer before things went any further. There was the sound of a throat being cleared, and then Gluskin withdrew his hand and smoothed Waylon’s nightshirt back into place, and Waylon opened his eyes to see Dennis wheeling in a small cart laden with a tea service for two, as well as a silver tiered tray arranged with an assortment of pastries and small cakes. Waylon met Dennis’s eyes for a moment and saw deep disapproval written in every line of the man’s face. Waylon guessed it was the old man in control tonight, judging from his sneer.

“Anything else, Mister Gluskin?” he said.

“No, that will be all, Dennis. Thank you.”

Dennis sketched a bow and retreated, closing the door audibly behind him. Waylon was once again alone with the master, but the critical moment had passed, and he was free to rise from Gluskin’s lap without comment and cross to the other chair. There was a blanket draped over the back of the chair, which Waylon pulled across his lap both to warm himself and to hide his embarrassment. Gluskin’s gaze dropped for only a moment before he turned his attention to the tea. He poured for Waylon, stirred in lots of milk and sugar, and passed him the cup. Waylon sipped, and then, because he was hungry, he took a cake. Gluskin smiled in approval.

“Good,” he said. “It’s important you keep your strength up.” A pause, in which Gluskin watched Waylon wolf down two more pastries and half his tea. Then, “Do you like to read?”

Waylon nodded. “When I get the chance,” he said. “There aren’t many books in the village, but whenever anyone needed a scribe, I was the m-… the one to do it.”

Gluskin gestured around the room. “Well, feel free to take a look through these whenever you like,” he said. “I meant it when I told you you had free rein to wander the castle. You must be getting bored sitting in your tower all day.” Waylon thought he saw a hint of amusement on the vampire’s face, but it was gone in an instant. “And Billy missed you.”

“He said that?” Waylon had seen Billy each day, although they had exchanged only a few words. Billy was shy, and blushed and made excuses whenever Waylon suggested he stay in his chamber longer than the time it took to deliver his food.

“He doesn’t need to,” said Gluskin. “I can tell.”

“Are you ‘connected’ to him as well?” Waylon said, shocked at the sudden, ugly rise of jealousy within him.

Gluskin laughed. “Not like that, darling,” he said lightly. His eyes sparkled, as though Waylon’s irritation tickled him. “There’s no need to worry about that. Trust me, I only have eyes for you”. Waylon wasn’t so sure that was a good thing, but the beast inside of him that had reacted to the idea of Gluskin and Billy Hope sharing the same kind of bond as the one Gluskin had forced on him did seem mollified by Gluskin’s denial. “Finish your tea, my love, and let’s get you back to bed. Can you find your way on your own?” Waylon shook his head no as he crammed another cake into his mouth and washed it down with the last of his tea. “Then allow me to guide you.”

Gluskin rose and offered Waylon his arm. Their return to Waylon’s bedchamber was civilised, strolling through the torch-lit corridors arm in arm like lovers. Gluskin said goodnight to Waylon at the door, and Waylon retired to his bed. The room was chilly, the fire in the hearth having burnt down to embers, but after climbing beneath his blankets Waylon soon warmed up when he thought back on his and Gluskin’s kiss in the library. He was sure Gluskin was working some kind of compulsion on him, even if he wasn’t responsible for sending the dreams. It was the only way to explain Waylon’s attraction, the only reason he would entertain for why his body flushed anew with arousal when he thought about Gluskin’s hands on him beneath his nightshirt and his breathy voice promising to bring all his most illicit fantasies to life. Absently, he brought his fingertips to the bite marks on his neck. Could it be those? Perhaps his “claim” did more than take away Waylon’s fear—perhaps they drew him to the monster as well. And if that was the case, then Waylon was already doomed.

 

The next day, Waylon received another gift. Gluskin must have worked throughout the night to craft a set of elegant, beautifully tailored clothing, simpler than anything he had sent him before but still sublimely beautiful and expertly tailored to Waylon’s exact measurements. Placed atop the folded garments was a note, which said:

 

_Wear these to dinner tonight. I trust you’ve chosen to end your isolation._

_With love,_

_Edward_

 


	4. Consort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the erratic updates, real-life has been a little full lately. Thanks for sticking with me :) Also big, huge thank you to everyone who has been reading, commenting, and kudo-ing, your support really means a lot and keeps me writing <3

That night, Waylon met Gluskin for dinner for the first time in weeks. And the next night, and the next. Gluskin did not bite him again.

It was… fine. Pleasant, even. Waylon sat on one side of the table, Gluskin on the other, and they made friendly, if awkward, talk about the books and scrolls Waylon was now spending his waking hours devouring in the library. Waylon had never had the luxury of so much knowledge all in one place, laid out for him like a smorgasbord, and he was brimming with enthusiasm for the experience. Now, instead of spending his days languishing in his tower alone, he pored over dusty old tomes and crumbling pages on all manner of topics, from maps to treatises on ethics to lexicons for languages Waylon had never even heard spoken. After a while, Gluskin began to pick things out for him. He appeared to take enjoyment from guiding Waylon through his explorations, his burgeoning education. Soon Waylon was so absorbed, so enthusiastic, that he forgot to be afraid of the man who was making it all possible.

“Where did you get all of these from?” Waylon asked one rainy afternoon as he knelt by the library hearth, a spread of open books before him upon the rug.

Gluskin sat in a chair just across from Waylon, a velvet gown draped across his lap as he applied complicated embroidery to the cuffs. “From here and there,” he said without looking up from his needlework. “Many of the older ones were here when I was a boy, but I do pick up a lot of things when I’m away from home.”

So Gluskin _had_ grown up in the castle. “You travel?” Waylon asked.

“Yes of course, darling. You think I’ve stayed here my entire life?”

“I’ve never been beyond the valley,” said Waylon pointedly. The only people to leave the village were Gluskin’s brides, and as far as Waylon knew they didn’t get far. The few people who did dare to escape the forested valley never returned. No one knew whether they made it out at all or met a terrible fate on their way through the dark, dangerous woods.

“No, I suppose you haven’t,” Gluskin mused. “But of course it’s far too dangerous…”

Waylon entertained a brief fantasy of fleeing the castle, leaving the valley and never coming back. Would Gluskin still be able to hunt him beyond the borders of his territory? He stifled a sigh and returned to his reading. It was an idle daydream, nothing more. He was shackled to Gluskin as securely as if he really had married him.

 

Waylon started sleeping later and later in the mornings, rising around midday and staying up longer into the night with Gluskin. During overcast afternoons Gluskin gave him proper tours of the castle, and was adamant that Waylon should learn his way around his new home. “No more getting lost in the dark, darling,” he had said. Together they visited yet more gardens, some intended for recreation and reflection, others working kitchen gardens filled with vegetables and herbs. One was planted entirely with night-blooming flowers for Gluskin’s personal enjoyment. There was also an orchard, the fruit trees boasting a profusion of fragrant blossoms that drifted on the breeze and perfumed the air. The petals got stuck into Waylon’s hair, and Gluskin took great joy in tenderly picking them out. At the rear of the castle, between the keep and the ivy-covered shield wall, there was a large open space which had been allowed to grass over, upon which a scattering of livestock grazed, tended by more of Gluskin’s “children”. Waylon tried to reach out to the boys sometimes, but they avoided his eyes and were evasive, almost like they were afraid of him. Billy, when Waylon would meet with him in the little courtyard garden beneath Waylon’s tower, still insisted Waylon was well-liked amongst the staff, even if none of them dared to talk with him. Waylon was hard pressed to say just how many there were of the boys and young men Gluskin even had working and living at the castle; because they usually ducked their heads and avoided notice, creeping about like spiders, Waylon failed to get a good enough look at any of their scarred faces to differentiate one from his fellows. When Waylon confessed this to Billy, Billy just laughed and reassured him it would get better with time.

Waylon’s days found a rhythm, and while he wasn’t exactly happy—he missed his real family with an acute ache in his breast whenever he thought about them—he was managing. The bitter loneliness of his new life was sweetened by one thing: Waylon discovered an unexpected taste for luxury. The fine foods hadn’t done it, nor had his luxurious quarters, but the clothes—the clothes were something else. He enjoyed the feel of silk against his skin, the pleasing weight of velvet, the whisper of lace. He could admire his appearance in the mirror when he donned one of Gluskin’s creations and see the beauty that Gluskin, in his madness, had seen all along. He had put on a little weight since coming to the castle, but it suited him well. He no longer looked undernourished and thin, and instead he had a healthy look, and his hair and eyes shone. He had always been aware of his good looks, but it was only now that he discovered vanity.

As the spring continued, the weather gradually warmed, some of that heat even penetrating the castle’s thick stone walls to lift some of the sepulchral chill from the interior chambers. The days were bright and mild, the castle grounds were idyllic in the sunshine. Waylon and Lord Gluskin coexisted somewhat uneasily, if civilly, and the blood and the terror of Waylon’s first few nights started to feel like a distant memory. The castle was big enough to contain the both of them with space to spare, but Waylon still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was never quite alone. Gluskin’s essence permeated every stone of the building, and according to Gluskin the vampire was always aware of his bride’s whereabouts, so that try as they might neither of them could fully escape the other.

Not that they necessarily wanted to.

Waylon’s dreams persisted, but they came more and more seldom the more he got to know the man to whom he was bound. Gluskin was courteous, and clearly took great pains to avoid losing control of himself again. That didn’t stop him from continuing his courtship, of course. The midnight strolls through the castle grounds arm-in-arm continued, as did the moonlit picnics, the talks long into the small hours of the morning. In the afternoons and evenings, Waylon worked his way through the books in the library, and the more he read, the more able he was to keep up with Gluskin’s conversations on wide-ranging topics, and soon enough he was able to hold his own in good-natured debates as well.

One evening, Gluskin gave him a tour of the portrait galleries, pointing out his ancestors as they wandered from picture to picture.

“So your family has held this castle for generations,” Waylon said.

“Yes, this was our ancestral home, although I had hoped to have passed the place on by now,” Gluskin said with a wry smile. “Of course that all changed when…”

“When you died,” said Waylon. Gluskin gave him a thin-lipped nod. Waylon strolled to the next painting, and Gluskin dragged his heels after him. This picture was huge, framed in heavy, thickly tarnished gilt, the paint darkened by age. It depicted four figures arranged around a couch—a man and a youth standing stiffly behind, a woman and a girl upon the couch in front, all posed formally. Three of the four were raven haired and pale skinned, while the woman, dressed in a gown of duck-egg blue, had hair of palest blonde all tightly coiled atop her head in an elaborate coif. It was a family portrait. Waylon peered up at it, and when he glanced sidelong at Gluskin he saw the vampire regarding the painting with an inscrutable expression. Of course, he likely hadn’t seen his family in centuries. No wonder he was lonely enough to demand a companion every few decades to keep him company.

“How did it happen?” Waylon said softly. For a moment he thought he had overstepped, but the strange familiarity he and Gluskin had begun to build these past weeks had lent him the confidence to pry into this mysterious portion of the vampire’s past. Gluskin was silent for a moment, his big body tense beside Waylon, and then he took a drew a breath to speak.

“A pack of un-dead wiped out one of the smaller villages on the north edge of the valley—you know, there were more settlements in this territory back then. I’ve had to fight tooth and nail to keep this small fragment of my ancestral home, meagre as it is. My father,” Gluskin nodded toward the man in the portrait, “rode out to counter the threat and protect his people. He was gone for days. When he returned it was on foot, with none of the men he had ridden out with.” Waylon waited for Gluskin to collect himself as he relived this tragic memory. When he continued, there was a slight tremor in his voice. “At first it wasn’t clear what had happened. Back then, you see, darling, we just knew so little about any of it, and for a while we thought he would make a recovery. Of course he refused to allow a healer anywhere near him. It was only when, several days later, I went to his chambers and found him in the midst of draining my sister, Jennifer, of blood, that I realised my father was dead and the _thing_ that came back was something else entirely.” Waylon was silent. Was that how Gluskin thought of himself, he wondered? A monster, that replaced the real Edward Gluskin on the point of his death? “He attacked when he saw that he was caught. I fought him, but he was so inhumanly strong. Later I would find my mother’s corpse in my parents’ bedchamber. He had wanted to turn all three of us, but only I survived… if you can call it that.”

Waylon was silent for a time, reflecting on the grim tale of an entire family needlessly killed. “After all that,” he said, “you’d still do the same to someone else?”

“Not like he did,” Gluskin said vehemently. “Never against your will, darling!” Gluskin turned and took Waylon by the shoulders. Waylon stiffened in his grip. “What my father did was monstrous. But it will be different for you and me. I won’t force you.”

Waylon didn’t have the energy to try to explain the holes in Gluskin’s logic. Likely Gluskin’s father had been driven by the same motives as his son, together with a newfound bloodlust that he probably found impossible to control, having no experience of it before. Faced with the prospect of outliving his loved ones and spending eternity in a lonely, cursed existence, could Waylon really say with certainty he would be selfless enough not to condemn his family to that same curse as well, just so he wouldn’t be alone? He didn’t think he would ever hurt them, but he had seen Gluskin the younger when he lost control, and he’d had hundreds of years to learn how to keep his urges in check. He sighed and said, “I know.”

“Anyway, I killed him,” Gluskin said, shocking Waylon again. “And then I went to find the creature that had bitten him.”

“Did you find them?” Waylon asked.

Gluskin shook his head and looked away. “No, never.” Abruptly he let go of Waylon and turned away, pressing a hand against his face. “I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. Waylon realised that the vampire was crying. Uncertain, Waylon reached out and put a hand on Gluskin’s shoulder. He was just as much of a monster as the father he had killed out of revenge, but he was also someone who had lost a family he loved. It didn’t matter that it was long ago, those kinds of wounds never truly healed. Gluskin’s emotional spell passed quickly enough and he collected himself once more, turning to Waylon with a bright smile. “Oh, darling, no need to spend your sympathy on the likes of me. You’re so sweet…” He caressed Waylon’s cheek, and then pulled him into an embrace. “You have such a warm heart.”

The physical contact was a bad idea. Waylon’s body was primed to react to its “master’s” touch, and the moment Gluskin’s arms closed around him he was overtaken by unholy heat. Gluskin was slave to it as well, and a growl escaped his throat, his cold breath tickling the side of Waylon’s neck. Waylon squirmed, and Gluskin let him go after a frightening moment in which he tightened his grip instead. Waylon took several steps back. Gluskin’s expression was woebegone. “I’m so sorry-”

“It’s all right,” Waylon said. He didn’t want to hear any more apologies. Edward Gluskin might not have asked to become what he was, but he had embraced the change wholeheartedly. His very first action upon surviving the change was to exact bloody revenge, and he had ruled over the valley and bled its people dry in more ways than one ever since. “Let’s just continue, shall we?”

Gluskin was more than happy to move on. After a few paces, Waylon pointed down a corridor that was an offshoot of the main gallery. This hallway was dark, the windows all covered over with heavy drapes so that not even the gentle moonlight could penetrate. “What’s down there?” he asked.

“Would you like to see?”

Gluskin let Waylon walk ahead, and pull back the curtains from one of the large windows. The moonlight revealed a row of paintings upon the opposite wall, all in near identical frames, and all of young women. They stared plaintively out of the canvases, a variety of eye and hair colours, differing modes of dress, but all with the same haunting expression. Looking at them, Waylon saw again Susanna in the church, a young girl facing a terrible fate and an uncertain end.

“My brides,” said Gluskin, coming up behind Waylon.

“There are so many of them,” Waylon murmured.

“Some of them were so fragile,” Gluskin said sadly. With a chill, Waylon realised what he meant. Some had died quicker than others, some had been less able to withstand their groom’s violent courtship rituals, they hadn’t survived his love.

Waylon reached the end of the row and looked up at the final painting. It looked to be the oldest. The woman depicted in it looked barely more than a girl, with blonde hair partially covered beneath an embellished headdress. Waylon’s eye was caught by a glittering pendant hanging from a ribbon around her throat. Had it been a wedding gift, perhaps? Unlike the others, this girl gazed confidently out of the canvas; her cheeks were rosy, and her cupid’s bow lips were curved into a coquettish smile. This girl was happy to have her portrait painted. Had she been happy to be married as well?

“My first bride,” Gluskin explained in a hushed voice. “Eleanor.”

Waylon examined Gluskin’s expression. “You loved her,” he said.

With an asymmetrical, self-deprecating smile, Gluskin said, “I loved all of them. I still do.”

“But she was different,” Waylon persisted.

“I can’t lie to you, darling.” Gluskin’s hand came to rest on the small of Waylon’s back. “Eleanor was special. I married her before my father died, before- Well, _before_. She was to be my perfect bride, we were going to grow old together.”

“You were married before you became a vampire?”

Gluskin nodded. “We were sweethearts. It was only by a stroke of luck that she was away from the valley visiting with her family when my father came down with the... affliction. After I changed, she couldn’t bear it. I never… I never hurt her, but she lost her will to go on. We had always talked about children, you see.”

“You didn’t try to change her so you could be together forever?”

Gluskin’s face was shuttered. He wouldn’t meet Waylon’s eyes when he said, “I did. She said she was willing to try, that even if we never got the family we had always wanted, then at least we could be together.” He took a breath, and then continued, “But... it wasn't to be.”

“That must have been awful,” Waylon murmured.

“Yes, well.” He gave a slow, sad sigh. “It’s all in the past, my love. Everything will be different now.” He gave Waylon a smile, even though his eyes still glistened with tears. “Being with you is such a blessing, darling. You’re so strong, I know you’ll be able to bear it. Everything will be different, this time.”

 

* * *

 

That night, Waylon dreamed about the girls in the gallery. Their faces flitted through his memory, and they called out to him before their ephemeral images faded away, swallowed by the darkness, the same darkness that would swallow him up in the end too. Only one of them stayed longer. Eleanor stood at the foot of his bed and laughed at him. She looked young and full of life, but before Waylon’s eyes she wasted away to nothing but bones dressed in tattered white, a bridal gown upon a corpse. Then even her bones were consumed by shadows, until only a vague figure remained, as insubstantial as smoke, eyes like deep black hollows set in a featureless face. Waylon heard her laughing as the figure retreated into the gloom.

He awoke bolt upright in his bed, reaching for a phantom that was no longer there. He had neglected to draw the curtains fully around his bed, since it was a warm night, but the space at the end of the bed was empty. He pushed off his blankets and rose from the bed. It was dark and quiet. He lit a candle, only to pause when the flame flickered as though moved by an imperceptible breeze. He frowned and held still. Sure enough, there was a slight brush of wind against his skin. He looked in the direction in which the vision of Eleanor had disappeared. There was a heavy tapestry upon the wall. He approached it, all the while feeling a complete fool for doing so, and lifted it aside. It was heavy and layered with dust, which rose in a cloud upon being disturbed and made Waylon sneeze. But behind it, there was a straight, vertical crack in the masonry. Waylon set the candle aside and shouldered the tapestry further aside, and dug his fingers into the crack. He tugged, but nothing happened. The gap was too narrow to get any purchase, and he blushed, whipping his head around to check no one had appeared at the door to laugh at his attempt. No one was there, all was just as silent as the castle usually was. He was sure Gluskin was up somewhere, probably in the library or roaming the woods outside. He tried pulling on the gap again, but to no avail. It was probably nothing, just a quirk of the castle’s old architecture, or a crack in the stonework that had been covered up by a tapestry to keep out the draught. He sighed and gave it one last try. This time he set his palm against the stone and pushed. To his surprise, it moved. Only a little, but it was enough. Suddenly exhilarated, Waylon put his shoulder against the wall and pushed with all his might. It moved slowly, but as he exerted more force he was able to widen the gap more and more, until the space was big enough for a man to slip through. He stopped and stood back. His bedroom wall had opened, it was a hidden doorway, concealed beneath the tapestry and leading… he had no idea where. He took up the candle again and stuck his head through the gap, lifting the candle aloft and peering into the darkness. The space behind the wall was choked with dust and cobwebs, and pitch black. By the light of the candle Waylon was able to make out a narrow staircase leading down, no doubt zig-zagging tightly all the way down the side of his square tower. He bit his lip. He was itching to explore and see where this secret passageway led. Could it be a possible route out of the castle?

With a great effort, he withdrew from the dark space and set his candle back down upon the dresser, then he very carefully pulled the narrow section of wall back into place and let the tapestry fall across it once more.

It was hard, so hard, to resist the opportunity to flee. In his mind, he ran to the village, picked up his wife and children, and together they fled Gluskin’s land altogether and made a run for the city, where humans had a chance of a better life, their souls no longer beholden to an un-dead lord.

And if he did that, life in his village continued on as it ever had, Lord Gluskin oblivious to the people’s plight, their primitive living conditions, poverty, sickness… He had vowed to affect change from his position here at the castle, he had spent weeks earning, if not his love, then Gluskin’s trust at the least. An escape attempt—even a perceived one, if not a true attempt—would undermine that. Gluskin was already tangentially aware of Waylon’s location and presence at all times by way of their blood bond. If Waylon betrayed the vampire’s trust, Gluskin might respond by watching him even more closely.

With a great effort of will, he left the door alone and mentioned it to no one, and his days resumed their rhythm.

 

* * *

 

It was a quiet night in the castle library. Rain pattered against the windows, and inside it was warm and cosy. Waylon was curled in one of the chairs by the fire, poring over a volume of fantastical tales from foreign lands, but he set his book down when Gluskin approached him with a sparkle in his eyes and a shy, boyish grin upon his face.

“I have a surprise for you,” Gluskin said.

“Another gift?” Waylon rose.

“Yes, but this one is special.”

“I said no dresses,” Waylon warned.

“Yes, yes, darling, I know. No gowns, absolutely,” Gluskin said solemnly. “It’s not a dress. Come here.”

“All right…” Curious now, Waylon followed Gluskin over to a large oak desk tucked into a corner of the library. Gluskin delved into a drawer and drew something out. When he held it up, Waylon saw that it was a red velvet choker, upon which hung a glittering diamond in the shape of a teardrop. “This belonged to Eleanor,” he said. “I’d like you to have it. May I?” Waylon blinked, then nodded and turned around. Gluskin lifted the choker over Waylon’s head and brought the ends together at the back of his neck, fastening the chain clasp.

“Does it fit?” Waylon asked in surprise. He remembered seeing the pendant around Eleanor Gluskin’s dainty throat in her portrait. He wagered her neck had been a sight thinner than his own.

“I adjusted the chain for you, darling. There.”

It was a little snug—not tight enough to restrict his airflow, but just enough pressure to ensure that Waylon was aware of the press of velvet against his skin at all times. Waylon turned to face Gluskin and smiled, tilting his head. “How do I look?” he asked.

“Delicious,” Gluskin breathed. Waylon laughed nervously, then he saw Gluskin’s eyes. They were dark, almost black. It had been some weeks since Gluskin had drunk from him. He hadn’t asked for a bite, and Waylon hadn’t mentioned it. He didn’t know how long a vampire could comfortably go without sustenance, but he suspected Gluskin was nearing his limit. He swallowed. He held still as Gluskin stepped closer, his eyes focused on Waylon’s neck, his fingertips brushing the soft velvet at his throat.

“Do you need it?” Waylon whispered.

“Do you offer?” Gluskin murmured in reply. He was close now, and Waylon’s lips parted, his eyelids growing heavy as his body responded to his master’s touch. When Gluskin threaded his hands into his hair, Waylon let his head tilt back. “I’ve been patient, darling. I’ve been so good.”

Waylon brought a hand up to caress the side of Gluskin’s face, and then he offered him the pale inside of his wrist. At Gluskin’s questioning look, he explained, “It would be a shame to get blood on the velvet.”

Gluskin placed light, feathered kisses against the beat of Waylon’s pulse. “You’re so thoughtful, darling. But there’s something I want more.”

“More than blood?” Waylon frowned. It was so hard to think when his blood was rushing in his veins as though singing out to its true owner, _his_ owner. The diamond upon his collar weighed him down, pulled him toward Gluskin as surely as a leash. He leaned toward the vampire and sighed when Gluskin wrapped him in his arms. “What is it?”

“A kiss.”

“Is that all?”

“That’s far from all, but it will do for now. Let me?” Waylon closed his eyes and turned his face up, inviting. Gluskin kissed him, and Waylon didn’t feel any of the horror or guilt that had plagued him when he had first forsaken his wife and consented to be the vampire’s bride instead. Oh, the feelings were still there somewhere in his mind, but they were blotted out by the throb of desire that lingered like a cloud of perfumed smoke at the edge of his thoughts at all times, and which filled his mind entirely now, and suffused his body with warmth. Lisa was only down the hill in the village, but she could have been a whole world away. In this moment, his conflicted emotions about his situation were a problem for someone else—the man who had lived in the humble cottage in the tiny, backwood village was a separate person from the lady of the castle, Lord Gluskin’s beloved and elevated consort. He found himself returning Gluskin’s kiss, grabbing his collar in his fists and holding him close. As Gluskin’s hands slid down his back, Waylon was ready to let go all his resistance. It took so much work, so much effort to maintain it, and he was so tired. He was tired of dancing around Gluskin who wanted nothing more than to make him feel good, pleased and pampered and sated. And if the sacrifice was a few drops of his blood? Perhaps it was worth the exchange.

“Do it,” he whispered against Gluskin’s lips. “You promised-”

“What? What did I promise, darling?” Gluskin lifted Waylon up, and Waylon wrapped his legs around Gluskin’s waist. The vampire was so strong, he held Waylon effortlessly. He could have torn him to pieces just as effortlessly, but instead of frightening Waylon off it turned his insides to jelly and set something deep in his belly to throbbing. “Anything you desire, name it and it’s yours-”

“You promised,” Waylon said breathlessly. “You promised to make my dreams come true.”

Gluskin’s eyes glinted in the firelight. Waylon hadn’t revealed any of his lewd imaginings, but in that moment, when Gluskin’s grin sharpened and his eyes blazed, Waylon knew that he knew all about them. Had they been a ploy, a part of the vampire’s seduction all along? Waylon no longer cared. He was ready to surrender at last.

Gluskin’s fangs elongated, and he was just about to strike when the library doors flew open and a young man entered. “Lord Gluskin, sir!” he cried. With a skinny frame and a heavily scarred face, he was one of Gluskin’s servants. Waylon’s sense returned with the impact of a blow to the face, and he wriggled out of Gluskin’s arms and stepped away. Gluskin didn’t prevent him, he was too busy glowering at the servant who had interrupted them. “Please help,” the boy said as he advanced into the room. “It’s Billy!”

Gluskin’s scowl disappeared at once. “What about Billy?” he said. He rushed to the boy’s side. The boy was practically hyperventilating, and as he tried to explain the situation the words fell from his mouth in an incomprehensible jumble. Gluskin placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and bent so he could look into the boy’s eyes. “Isaac,” Gluskin said softly. He sounded calm, but Waylon could feel a current of darkness begin to stir, unseen. He didn’t know if the servant boy could sense it, or if Waylon was aware of it only because of his “bond” with his master, but the vampire was calling his power. As Gluskin held Isaac’s gaze and murmured soothing words, the boy gradually calmed and started to breathe more slowly.

“Now tell me, Isaac,” Gluskin said. “Has something happened to Billy?”

Isaac, pale and wide-eyed, sobbed, “He’s missing!”

Gluskin tilted his head. “Missing?”

“No one can find him anywhere.”

Gluskin looked up at Waylon. “He wouldn’t have left, would he?” Waylon said, frowning. “He’s never said anything about wanting to leave the castle. He’s always seemed perfectly happy staying here.”

Gluskin shook his head. “It’s very unlike him.” Turning back to Isaac, he said, “Go downstairs. I’ll find Billy. Tell everyone not to worry.”

Isaac’s body sagged, his face betraying his relief. He had done his duty, now his lord would take care of the problem. Waylon was amazed at the absolute faith these boys had in their lord. Isaac bobbed a little bow and hurried away.

Turning to Waylon, Gluskin said, “I’m so sorry, darling, we’ll have to cut this short again. You don’t mind, do you?”

“What? N-no,” Waylon shook his head. Everything had happened so fast, he felt like he was still struggling to keep up. “I hope Billy’s all right. Is there anything I can do?”

“Just wait here, my love. With some luck I will be back very soon.” With that, he swept from the room. His footsteps stopped abruptly as he stepped out of the library doors and dematerialised into smoke.

Alone now, Waylon thought over the last few minutes and blushed in mortification. What had he been thinking? He shook his head, trying to clear the fog that made it so hard to focus on anything except his master’s voice, his touch, his wishes and thoughts, his every whim. When had he started to think of Gluskin as his master? Just what was the vampire doing to him? Was this delirium of Waylon’s own creation, or was it something inflicted upon him by a sadistic un-dead suitor? He rubbed his hands over his face, which was hot to the touch. He tugged at the velvet collar around his neck, suddenly finding it strangling. He fumbled with the clasp and narrowly managed to stop himself from tearing the thing off with brute force. He finally unfastened it, and threw it down onto Gluskin’s workbench. The diamond glittered in the firelight tantalisingly. Waylon turned away.

Anxious to think about something—anything—else, Waylon wondered what trouble Billy might have got himself into. He was sure it was nothing. The boy was a homebody, and heaven knew there were enough hidey-holes to get lost in in this labyrinthine castle. That thought reminded him of the secret doorway he had discovered the night he had first dreamed of Eleanor’s shade standing over his bed. That hadn’t been the last time Gluskin’s former brides had appeared in his dreams, but it was still the most vivid, the most eerie. He frowned as an idea came to him. With Lord Gluskin busy searching for Billy, Waylon had been left unattended. Gluskin wouldn’t be concentrating on Waylon’s whereabouts as long as he was worrying about Billy. If he ever wanted to see where that secret doorway led, now was the perfect time.

Waylon left the library quietly, closing the doors behind him and making his way swiftly up to his tower bedroom. He knew the way well enough now. Once in his room, he lifted the tapestry aside and pushed on the hidden door. As before, the wall swung away to reveal a dark cavity. Waylon paused to take a candle before he stepped into the darkness. He would have to leave the wall open so he could get back, but he swung the tapestry over the hole to conceal the passage. Then he began to make his descent.


	5. The Bride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween everybody! :D

Waylon passed through the hidden doorway and into darkness. Making his way by the light of his candle, he picked his way down a spiral staircase that seemed to go on forever. The stairwell was cramped and dark, the steps were steep and uneven, and more than once Waylon almost lost his footing. The air was stale, and the walls and ceiling were covered in cobwebs and dirt. When he reached what he presumed was the base of the tower, the stairs ended and became a tunnel instead. He followed this tunnel into what he discovered to be a network of cramped passages built into and between the castle walls and snaking off into unknown darkness in all directions. He stood at a junction between three tunnels and hesitated. It would be so easy to get lost in this labyrinth. If only he had thought to take a piece of chalk from Gluskin's worktable to mark his way. Unwilling to turn back so soon, he chose a direction at random and started walking, but he paused at each turn to dribble some wax from his candle onto the floor; in lieu of a better option, it was his best way of leaving a trail to follow on the way back. As he walked, he had to remind himself again and again that he was not, technically, doing anything wrong—Lord Gluskin had told him he was free to roam the castle at will—but still he couldn't shake the feeling of venturing somewhere he wasn't supposed to.

Before long he came upon his first dead end. Frowning, he doubled back and chose a different tunnel. This one passed within a wall, and small chinks in the stonework allowed him to peek into the chambers beyond. Most were dark, affording Waylon a view of nothing but blackness, but occasionally he was able to spy candlelit rooms, and on one occasion he caught a glimpse of one of the staff going about their nightly activities. He moved on from these swiftly; the boys' pacing, chattering, even praying unsettled him. Every time he came to a dead end or a locked door, Waylon was forced to turn back, and soon his wax trail was rendered more confusing than helpful. He was just about to give in to frustration and attempt to return to his room when he rounded a corner and the light of his candle picked out a set of skeletal features in the darkness ahead of him. He yelped and stopped shirt. Then he raised the candle, and Dennis stepped forward with a shake of his head.

Dennis. Of course. Waylon felt like a fool for not realising sooner—Dennis, who always seemed to be everywhere at once, and who had such a knack of appearing as if from nowhere right when the moment called for it, must use these hidden passageways to get around the castle, and mayhap for spying on its inhabitants as well.

"You're out of bounds, little girl," Dennis said, and clicked his tongue in paternal disapproval.

Frowning, Waylon said, "Lord Gluskin said I could go wherever I pleased."

Dennis chuckled, then turned his head and spat a gob of thick phlegm onto the floor. "Did he now? Did he now… That's interesting. Might be he reconsiders when he hears exactly where you've been wanderin'."

Waylon didn't have the patience for Dennis's incomprehensible games. Spying a thick iron ring of keys hanging from the steward's belt, he motioned toward it with his candle and said, "I've lived here at the castle for several weeks now and still haven't received my own set of keys." He held out his free hand. "I'd like to have loan of yours until a new set can be made for me."

Instead of handing the keys over, Dennis took a half step back and, narrowing his eyes, said, "You don't need 'em. Lady oughtta know better 'n to go scurryin' 'round in the walls like a rat."

Nonplussed at being compared to a disease-carrying rodent, Waylon held out his hand again and said, more forcefully this time, "Just hand them over." He paused, and then made himself say, "I am the lady of this household. You answer to me, not the other way around."

Dennis's thick eyebrows rose, and he chuckled again even as he slid the keyring from his belt. He handed it over slowly, and then said, "Careful, little girl. Could be all kinds o' dangers in these old walls."

Waylon scowled and snatched the keys from Dennis's hand. "Thank you," he said. "And I think we can both agree the master is the most dangerous thing within these walls, and I have _him_ good and tamed."

Dennis only laughed.

As much as he wanted to go back and try Dennis's keys in some of the locked doors he had come to, turning around and giving Dennis his back felt too much like defeat, so instead Waylon breezed past him and strode the way Dennis had come. When he chanced to look back, Dennis was nowhere to be seen.

Still stewing over the other man's blatant disrespect, Waylon traced Dennis's steps through a cramped gap and then a short tunnel until he reached a little door that swung outward into a dim, stone-lined passageway. This wasn't part of the tunnel network but a real passageway, with a number of thick wooden doors leading off it. There were no windows, and from the biting chill Waylon guessed that he had somehow ended up beneath the castle in one of its surely extensive cellars. One end of the passage was blocked with piles of old furniture and debris, while at the other end a door was securely locked and bolted. Dennis's tunnel appeared to be the only passable way into or out of this hallway, and it didn't seem to lead anywhere else. Waylon wondered if he had happened upon the steward's own private refuge, and for a moment he considered turning back. But then he remembered the sly look in Dennis's eye when he had called Waylon "little girl", and his resolve hardened.

He looked at all of the doors, most of which hung ajar or loose upon their hinges. He found nothing of note, just bare storage rooms scattered with old broken furniture and sundry bits of junk. The door at the end of the passage was the only one that was closed, and it boasted a thick deadbolt and a large padlock and chain. Both the bolt and the lock looked old but sturdy. Waylon approached the door, any trepidation he might have had quickly turning to curiosity. What was here that Dennis had been so keen to keep him from? He pressed his ear to the door, but as hard as he listened, he couldn't hear anything. He knew he ought to leave well enough alone, but… well, Gluskin  _had_ said he had the run of the castle. He was within his rights to snoop in his own home, wasn't he? And besides, Gluskin had hardly respected  _his_ privacy or autonomy in abducting him and subjecting him to his infernal seduction. Waylon examined Dennis's keys, and then started trying each key of roughly the right size in the padlock one by one. The first several he tried were no good, and he began to wonder if Dennis hadn't simply had a little joke at his expense, but then one key clicked perfectly into place and turned. He smiled. The padlock opened and fell away, and Waylon slid back the bolt.

"Ouch…" Feeling an unexpected sting of pain, he looked down to see that he had cut the pad of his thumb on the rough, rusted edge of the bolt. A glossy bead of blood appeared, and he instinctively brought his thumb to his mouth and sucked the little wound. Then he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Unlike the storage rooms he had just explored, which had smelled damp and fusty at worst, the room he entered now had the scent of a crypt. The air was ripe with the acrid stench of stale air and decay. The door had been shut so tightly the scent hadn't been able to escape into the hallway, but now it hit Waylon full in the face. He grimaced and covered his nose and mouth with his hand as he gazed into the dark chamber. By the light of a single dim lamp, he could see that the windowless room was done up like a lady's boudoir, with an elaborate four-poster bed made up with pale satin sheets and strewn with cushions, all of which had been torn and chewed near to ruin. Tied to one of the bedposts was a length of worn old rope, the other end of which was wrapped around the neck of a feminine figure who stood with her back to Waylon, facing a large, gilt-framed mirror and running a brush through her long, pale hair. From behind, the woman appeared petite and thin, the white nightgown she wore hung baggily off her slight frame. But as Waylon looked closer, he saw that the nightgown was ragged and torn here and there, and the hand that grasped the hairbrush was gnarled and bony, and the skin had a greyish tinge. When Waylon glanced past her to the looking glass, he saw that she cast no reflection.

Waylon did, though. She saw him in the glass and turned with a startling animal hiss. Waylon recoiled at the terrible sight of her. Her skin was ashen and pulled tight over the bones of her face. Pale yellow hair hung in lifeless hanks from her scalp, her eyes were deeply sunken, and her teeth—sharp, jagged teeth—protruded grotesquely. The woman standing before him was not human, but she couldn't possibly be called a vampire, either. There was no glimmer of intelligence in her eyes; in fact, for a moment Waylon saw absolutely nothing there at all, before her gaze focused on Waylon's face—no, not his face, but on the hand he held in front of his face, the hand pricked with blood—and she burst into motion. She lunged towards Waylon in a sudden rush of speed Waylon wouldn't have thought her capable of. He darted backward, stumbling. The rope snapped taut before she could reach him, and she came up short and fell. With an inhuman groaning she got back to her feet and strained against the rope, her arms outstretched in Waylon's direction and her jaws snapping. The rope around her neck was so tight it cut into her dessicated flesh and made her eyes bulge, but it didn't seem to dissuade her. She was utterly mindless. Waylon had likened Gluskin to a rabid animal in his bloodthirsty aggression, but even in the grip of his worst hunger Waylon was still able to discern the spark of Gluskin's personality. This creature wasn't like that at all. Waylon couldn't see any trace of humanity in her distorted features or her wildly rolling eyes. It was terrifying in a way Gluskin had never been, frightening as he could be. Was this what they called a ghoul? He had heard and read about the creatures, but never had the misfortune to see one himself. He kept himself out of reach of her long talon-like fingernails, which raked the air in front of her in a vain attempt to grab at him. His back hit the wall, and he carefully inched sideways towards the door. He didn't take his eyes off her. Just as he reached the exit, the rope around the dead woman's neck, frayed from many years of wear, broke. Waylon darted through the open door and broke into a sprint. The ghoul, finally free of her binding, lunged after him. Her nails raked Waylon's back, tearing his shirt and drawing blood. This seemed to drive her into an even greater frenzy, and she succeeded in pulling Waylon to the ground. She was uncommonly strong, stronger than a living woman, and far stronger than her skeletal appearance would suggest. Waylon managed to flip himself onto his back before she could sink her jaws into the back of his neck, and he brought up his hands to fight her off. He used all his strength to hold her off him, but his mortal strength was inadequate to fight off a blood-starved ghoul. Her teeth sank into his forearm, and Waylon cried out in pain. There was none of the pleasure of Gluskin's bites, this was only pain—ragged, red, tearing pain. She bit deeper, latching on like a dog, and growled. Waylon beat frantically at her and tore great clumps of her hair out at the roots. It came out easily. He managed to dislodge her jaws and got a hand around her throat. He held her away from him with all his strength, and then forced a leg in between their bodies and pushed her away with his foot. It was a useless battle. He simply wasn't strong enough. Her nails opened long slashes in his face, chest, and arms as she fought to get closer to him. Blood dripped into his eyes so all he could see was red.

Was this how it would end? Not devoured by Gluskin himself but run down by some deranged pet of his in the basement instead? It seemed cruelly unfair. This wasn't the death he had signed up for; Gluskin had short-changed him.

Suddenly the weight on him lifted, and through the blood he saw the monster fly up into the air. He blinked and scrambled away, dashing a hand across his eyes to clear his vision. Then he saw that she wasn't flying, but being hoisted into the air—Gluskin held her by the neck. When she didn't stop struggling and trying to get to Waylon, Gluskin set her down and, before she could pounce on Waylon once more, spun her around and slammed his fist into her face. The force of the blow sent her into the wall, and then her body dropped to the floor. The ghoul's head was entirely stoved in. The worst part was that there was hardly any blood. Inside, the poor creature's flesh was pale and brittle as driftwood.

The ghoul dealt with, Gluskin turned his attention to Waylon. In the dark passageway, Gluskin's hulking figure appeared even more menacing than usual—a black aura surrounded him, his eyes burned like hot blue flames, and Waylon was convinced he meant to kill him next. Still in the grip of the panic of fleeing and fighting for his life, and seeing murder written on Gluskin's pale face, he turned and scrambled away from him on his hands and knees. He pushed himself to his feet, but had only taken a single step before Gluskin's ice cold hand closed upon his shoulder.

"Let me go!" Waylon shouted, twisting desperately to get free. Gluskin growled and spun Waylon around. His hand clamped around Waylon's throat, and he lifted Waylon into the air. Waylon clung onto Gluskin's wrist and kicked at him with his legs, all to no avail.

"What are you doing down here? Tell me!" Gluskin demanded. His voice was ragged with emotion. "Do you- Do you understand what you've done?"

"Please, I'm sorry!" It was a struggle for Waylon to talk with Gluskin's hand constricting his neck. Gluskin gave him a shake "I d-didn't know!"

"Don't lie to me!" Gluskin tightened his grip, tighter and tighter, and then turned and slammed Waylon into the wall. Leaning close, he inhaled the scent of Waylon's blood from the myriad cuts and scratches all over him. Baring his teeth, he snarled, "I ought to destroy you for this betrayal."

"Don't," Waylon choked. "Please."

Gluskin's nostrils flared and his eyes darkened, becoming almost entirely black as his pupils dilated. He drew air in through his mouth,  _tasting_ Waylon's blood on the air. He looked as far from human as Waylon had ever seen him. Growling low in his throat, his teeth elongated before Waylon's eyes. 

"Don't do this," Waylon said with difficulty. "T-think… You don't… you don't want to kill me. You don't want to be alone." Gluskin hesitated. "That's right. You can't be alone."

"You can be replaced," Gluskin said darkly.

"Can I? You said… You said I was  _special_ ." 

"So was she!" Gluskin roared.

Waylon reached for him and curled his fingers weakly into his shirt. Gluskin let out something halfway between a growl and a moan, and licked slowly over the two matching scars upon Waylon's neck. Waylon squirmed, and Gluskin growled, "Treacherous whore. Were you jealous? Is that why you came down here, so I would be forced to destroy her?"

Waylon wasn't in a fit state to make sense of Gluskin's words, but they felt like progress nonetheless. Squirming in Gluskin's hard grip, he said, "Y-yes. Yes, I was… jealous." He took a wild gamble, the words falling from his lips almost before he had even thought of them, "I wanted you all to myself! You're mine! I'm your bride and you're my master!" Strangely, as he said the words Waylon felt them to be deeply, instinctively true. His body relaxed in Gluskin's hold; Gluskin was his master, this was true—therefore Gluskin could do whatever he liked to him and it would be only right. Waylon stopped fighting for his life. His life was his master's, and if his master chose to end it then who was he to protest? Dimly, very distantly, some part of him might have tried to remind him this was wrong, this was the vampire's compulsion, this was the unholy blood bond clouding his mind—but in the desperate heat of that moment, Waylon could not hear.

Gluskin growled in response to not only Waylon's words but his obvious physical submission. He could no longer deny his duties as a master now than Waylon could go against his rule. He jerked Waylon's head to the side and sank his teeth into Waylon's neck. Waylon cried out. The pain of his master's bite was entirely unlike that of the ghoul's; this was a searing, cleansing pain that cut right to the core of him and renewed and strengthened Gluskin's claim on him. It was necessary, Waylon felt it deep within; when the ghoul had bitten him she had challenged Gluskin's claim. Gluskin had no choice but to eliminate her false claim—and her—and reaffirm ownership of his bride. Waylon realised he was weeping, but they were tears of gratitude.

When Gluskin lifted his head, his mouth all bloody, Waylon stared dazedly at him and said, "Master…"

Gluskin curled his lip and threw Waylon down. Waylon landed on his hands and knees and stayed there, breathing hard as he fought not to faint.

"You may have chosen to come here," Gluskin said raggedly as he stood over Waylon, "but you still presume far too much."

"It's my right," Waylon said. And Gluskin knew that it was, and that he couldn't argue, but he still wasn't happy about it. There were tears in his eyes too, bitter tears of grief. He turned away from Waylon and sank down at the dead ghoul's side. He gathered the body into his arms, cradled the ruined head in his lap. Waylon heard him murmuring, and thought he heard the word "sorry".

"Get out," Gluskin said to him, after a time. Waylon hesitated, and Gluskin said again, "Get  _out!_ "

Reluctantly, Waylon picked himself up and left Gluskin weeping over the dead ghoul's body. He crammed himself back through tunnels and crawlspaces, hardly knowing which way he was going, his vision blinded by blood and tears. He was bleeding and weak, and now that he was away from the immediate danger he was beginning to shake. It became so bad that he had to stop, in the middle of some hidden corridor somewhere in the bowels of the castle, and simply wait on his knees until the worst of the tremors passed. Then he wiped his eyes with his bloody hands and stumbled on.

He had lost his candle somewhere along the way, and it was too dark to see if he followed his trail of wax. He was walking blind, and it was only by sheer luck that the next door he pushed on spilled him out into unexpected light and warmth, and he saw he was in one of the castle kitchens. All activity stopped at once, and several confused faces turned to stare at him. Waylon turned back and realised he had tumbled out of the wall. Another hidden doorway, just like the one in his room.

The surprised hush lasted only a moment, and then the kitchen staff descended upon him. Waylon's instinct was to jerk away, but several pairs of strong hands picked him up from the floor and deposited him into a chair. A blanket was found from somewhere and wrapped around his shoulders, and hot food and drink appeared on a table in front of him. Waylon looked around him dazedly. His gaze fell upon the rough-hewn features of a tall, dark-haired man wearing a stained apron. Half his face was badly burned, but his expression was kind, and when Waylon regained enough awareness to work out what he was saying he realised he was asking if he could tend to Waylon's wounds. Waylon nodded shakily.

The other staff—five young men of varying ages and builds, Waylon now saw, each of them sporting their own scars or deformities—bustled around him, topping up his tea, cleaning the blood from his face and his hands. With some gentle coaxing, one of them got Waylon's shirt lifted over his head, and before Waylon knew it he was undressed, all his bloody, torn clothing taken away and replaced with more warm blankets. He had been seated by one of the big cooking hearths, and the heat it was pumping out went a long way to restoring Waylon's spirits. Little by little he stopped shaking.

"Thank you," he said. The man with the burns was washing out the wound on Waylon's forearm now with a hastily prepared solution that had a pungent, herby smell. The man nodded and his snarled lips twitched into what could be a hint of a smile. Waylon sipped his tea with his free hand and watched the others. He recognised some of them now, although he couldn't have put names to faces. "Aren't you going to ask what happened?" he said.

The others looked to the man Waylon assumed to be the head cook, leaving it for him to answer. He said, "Not our place."

Waylon thought for a moment, looked back down at his chewed up arm, and then said hurriedly, as though it were important, "This wasn't the master. He… He wouldn't…" The cook met his gaze steadily, then his eyes dropped to the similar, if cleaner, wound on Waylon's neck. "I know what it looks like," he mumbled.

After a pause, the cook said, "If it wasn't the master, then that's reason to clean the wound one more time. You can't be too careful." He proceeded to do just that, and then a needle and thread were produced from somewhere, and a bottle was pressed into Waylon's other hand. "The one on your neck looks all right, but this one isn't healing." Waylon remembered how after each time Gluskin bit him, he was left with barely a scar only hours afterwards. His master's bites healed near instantly, but the wound on his forearm was still as raw and open as the moment the ghoul's jaws had torn into him. "I'll stitch you up and bind it, but keep an eye on it. Come back to me tomorrow if you can." Then he appeared to realise he was speaking to the "mistress" of the castle and he added, "If that suits you, of course."

"Thank you," Waylon said, and meant it. The flurry of activity around him had slowed, the cooks crowding around him now to watch their superior work. Waylon looked around at them again. "I'm so sorry, but I don't know your names."

"I'm Sam," said the head cook, right before he began to sew Waylon's wound shut. "And this here is Danny. Hold here, Dan, like this… Good." The one called Danny was probably the oldest of the group bar Sam, with the kind of face only a mother could love, but he held the edges of Waylon's wound closed while Sam sewed, with a gentleness that his burly frame and thick hands belied. The others introduced themselves in halting, then gradually more confident voices, and Waylon looked closely at each of them and made an effort to commit their names to memory. He remembered what Billy had told him about the staff being fond of him. Waylon still wasn't sure what he'd done to earn their goodwill, but just then he was extremely grateful for it nonetheless.

He took a swig from the bottle he’d been given. The contents burned his throat and made his eyes water. He coughed, then took another sip.

"How many of you are there? Here at the castle, I mean?" he asked.

"Oh, not as many as all that," said Sam. "Most of us come here when we're young. Changelings, runaways, outcasts of various stripes. Lord Gluskin takes us all in the same."

"He calls you his family," Waylon said.

"He's sentimental like that," Sam said, but he didn't say anything to the contrary. Did these boys—no, some of them were grown men already—consider Gluskin their family in turn?

"After a while, the other lords around learned that he liked to collect us strays. They let him take their unwanted, and sometimes even send kids to him. Not all of them, of course, but his friends."

Having had spent his whole life in the valley in the shadow of Gluskin's castle, it was easy for Waylon to forget there was a whole world out there. Each territory would have a ruling vampire lord, perhaps even a whole clan of blood-sucking nobles, to keep their population of human serfs in line. Gluskin's valley was isolated as far as the people in the village knew, but for Gluskin himself it would of course be a different matter. That he chose to keep himself to himself most of the time didn't mean he wasn't still in contact with his un-dead peers.

Waylon was desperate to ask if they knew about the room in the cellar, and if they knew about the dead woman their master kept there, but it didn't feel fair to ask. He knew the level of their loyalty meant they would protect their lord, and he couldn't put them in the position of lying to him. So he held his tongue.

Something told him they knew, though.

When Sam was done stitching and binding the wound, and the others had finished cleaning up the rest of the cuts and scrapes all over Waylon's body, Sam straightened up and said, "You should rest. You need to regain your strength. Shall I send some more food up with you?"

"I've been meaning to compliment you on the excellent fare," said Waylon. "But I think I'm all right for now. I just need to sleep…" He stood up. One of the boys had run up to his chamber to fetch new, clean clothes for him to wear. Waylon pulled on the soft tunic and trousers without help, and felt steadier at once. He thanked everyone again and went to leave, intending to take Sam's advice and rest until Gluskin sent his inevitable summons, but just as he was turning toward the door he stopped. Turning back, he said, "Wait. Did anyone find Billy?" They looked at one another. "He was missing. Lord Gluskin went looking for him-"

Sam was shaking his head. "Haven't heard anything."

Rather than push the matter, Waylon nodded and said his goodbyes. Presuming he could make his peace with Gluskin, he intended to repay each and every one of the kitchen boys for their help and their kindness as soon as he was able. Perhaps a gift of some sort? He put the thought away for now, to be looked at and considered when he had more than half a brain to think with.

 

He made his way back towards his room in the tower. He did not return to the hidden passageways, but instead travelled through the now familiar hallways and rooms he had spent the last weeks exploring. On a whim, he chose a route that took him outside, along a stretch of battlements. The sun was just beginning to rise, and the first fingers of dawn light stretched across the gradually lightening sky. It felt good to be in the fresh air after spending his night scurrying lost through tight and airless tunnels and cellars. He filled his lungs with the cool morning air, and choked. Frowning, he took several more breaths, but it was unmistakable—the scent of smoke was on the air. He moved to the edge of the battlements and peered out from between two crenellations. The valley unfurled below. The light of the rising sun had not yet reached that deep into the castle's shadow and wouldn't for hours, so the forested valley and the village nestled within it lay still in shadow. It should have been dark, but instead Waylon saw the dreadful, unmistakable glow of flames.

"Oh, no… No. Please no," Waylon whispered. His fatigue and pain forgotten, Waylon changed his course and ran to the castle's main courtyard, off which stood Gluskin's stable. Within his own territory, Lord Gluskin preferred to travel under the power of his own magic, but he maintained a stable for the use of the staff or if he had need to travel further afield than could be reached in a single night. Waylon surprised the stable-boy dozing in a hay pile when he burst in and ran straight to the first stall. The grey horse in the stall was unsaddled, but Waylon leapt onto its back nonetheless. He held onto its mane and gripped its middle tightly with his thighs, and gave it a kick that sent the sleepy beast thundering out of the stable at a startled gallop. The clash of its hooves on the cobbled yard were deafeningly loud, and Waylon shouted to anyone who could hear that the village was burning, they had to help, someone had to do something. The castle gate stood open, and Waylon didn't wait to see if anybody would take up after him before he galloped through it. The road out of the castle quickly narrowed to a single lane track down the heavily wooded hillside, tacking back and forth in a zig-zag pattern that was treacherous in full daylight. In the dim early dawn, Waylon took his life in his hands. Soon the trees closed above the road, blocking out what little sun there was, and Waylon had to make his way in darkness. The horse ploughed on, more sure-footed than Waylon would have been, and Waylon simply clung on and trusted, trusted that he would not be thrown from the horse's back and break his neck, trusted that the horse would not plunge into a ravine and kill them both—and he trusted that, if he did reach the bottom of the valley in one piece, he might find his home intact and his loved ones still alive.

 

* * *

 

When Waylon reached the base of the hill he gave his stolen horse's flanks a hard kick and plunged onward into the village, heading for the little cottage at the far end where, until recently, he had lived with his wife and sons. The fire was catching quickly, spreading from thatched roof to thatched roof, and the narrow dirt streets were thick with smoke. Waylon heard some voices raised in fear and alarm, but overall it was frighteningly quiet in the burning village.

He made it as far as the village square before someone ran out in front of his horse. Spooked, the beast reared up on its hind legs, and Waylon was thrown from the horse and fell hard onto the ground. He rolled to the side and covered his head as the frightened horse stamped and then ultimately bolted away. Waylon yelled after it, but he fell silent the next moment when a new figure emerged from the smoke. The first had already sprinted past Waylon without seeing him. Now Waylon saw what they had been running from: a huge, hulking shape, it wasn't like anybody Waylon had ever seen. They stepped forward, and Waylon saw that it was a man, or at least vaguely so, a massive wall of moving muscle, stripped to the waist and covered in blood and ash. His neck and arms were wrapped in bloody chains, which swayed and clinked as he moved. Waylon's gaze travelled up his imposing form, and when he reached the face he withdrew in shock. Chunks of the fellow's face had been sheared away, leaving raw, exposed meat behind—most notably a bloody hole where the nose should have been, and the lips were absent altogether, leaving the prominent, jaggedly sharp teeth on full display. Vampire or ghoul, Waylon couldn't tell—Waylon thought he saw the glimmer of awareness in the creature's blazing eyes, but he could be mistaken. He didn't wait around to check.

Waylon forced himself to his feet, turned, and ran. The massive vampire gave chase. As he ran, Waylon dodged the prone bodies of the fallen he had failed to notice as he galloped into the village. He saw them only briefly now as he rushed past, but with every step he took he saw more and more—it was carnage, pure carnage.

His foot slipped in a patch of mud and he fell face first, only realising as he pushed himself up again that the mud was mixed with the blood of a headless corpse lying next to him. The head was nowhere to be seen, but at a glance, Waylon thought he recognised the village blacksmith. On his back now, he tried to keep backing away as the monster advanced on him. When the monster reached for him, Waylon saw that his fingers were long, clawed talons. He threw himself just out of its reach and then forced himself back onto his feet.

There was nowhere to go. The road behind him led back up to the castle, but without a horse he would never make it back on foot before this creature caught him. His options were to flee until he was run down, or to stay and die at once. Tears filled his eyes, and not just from the smoke. Behind the massive vampire, Waylon's village was burning. The people he had lived and worked alongside, people he had grown up with, had perished, and if anyone had survived then their homes, stores, and livelihoods were gone forever. They would never be able to rebuild after this. Food had been scarce already, and now what little they had was consumed by fire.

The behemoth advanced, reached out for Waylon. Waylon threw up his hands, even knowing as he did so it was no use. He hadn't been able to fight off the skinny ghoul in the castle cellar, he had no chance at all with this brute. He would be torn to pieces in seconds.

At least he would see his family again.

When a second passed, and then another, and still no attack came, he lowered his hands and looked up. A familiar figure stood between himself and the stranger. A bright darkness surrounded Lord Gluskin as he faced down the larger vampire, his outrage and aggression practically streaming off him like smoke.

"Leave this place and return to your master!" Gluskin warned. At first Waylon thought he was talking to him, but then he realised it was the giant he addressed. Said giant gave no indication of having heard him, and charged. Gluskin met the monster's charge with a blade glittering in his hand. Gluskin fighting was surprisingly physical, pitting brute strength against strength, with his silver blade scoring vivid lines across the monster's face and torso whenever he could get an opening. At first, it looked like they were evenly matched—but only at first. Waylon had gotten so used to seeing Gluskin as near all powerful; as master of the castle and lord of the territory where Waylon had spent his whole life, to the people of the valley he might as well have been. Now, however, that belief was proved false when the massive vampire gouged its clawed hand through Gluskin's torso, impaling him and lifting him into the air. Gluskin, teeth bared, began to dematerialise to free himself.

"No you don't," the bigger vampire slurred through its ruined mouth, and tossed Gluskin across the street. The fight continued for several minutes more, but Gluskin didn't regain the upper hand. The monster threw him this way and that, tore pieces off him one by one. Waylon kept well back. It looked like the beast was toying with Gluskin. At last, he grabbed Gluskin by the throat and lifted him again. By now the sky was lightening, and although the village still lay in the castle's shadow, sunlight was beginning to reach the bloody streets. With a grunt, the monster threw Gluskin down one final time. This time Gluskin didn't spring up again. He lay where he'd been thrown, and his eyes found Waylon. Waylon scrambled to his side. Blood poured from Gluskin's mouth and down his chin, while his torso was split open, his guts spilled out onto the road. His body was trying to reform itself, the detached parts dissolving into smoke and swirling around him like oil stirred through water. But it was sluggish, and Waylon wondered if the morning sunlight had anything to do with his master's waning power.

"Out of the way, darling," Gluskin said. He pushed Waylon aside with his one remaining hand. "This one's not done dying yet."

"Stop," Waylon tried. His master's wounds continued to try to heal themselves even as he rose to his feet once more, but so much of his blood was poured out over the street, or else on the monster he was fighting. That creature's mutilated face stretched into a mockery of a smile; he knew he had won, he was simply drawing out his triumph. Gluskin staggered, and Waylon caught him and propped him up. "Don't. Let's run."

"No strength left for that, love," Gluskin murmured, his eyes fixed on his enemy. "Not now. Look." Waylon did. The monster took a step toward them, and Gluskin's blood—all the mingled blood upon the ground—flowed like a muddy river toward him. A red mist surrounded him and then sank into his skin, and he roared; every drop of blood he wrung from Gluskin or from any of the hapless villagers only renewed him and made him stronger.

Waylon pushed Gluskin behind him. Gluskin growled, but Waylon ignored him. He picked up a smouldering timber from the ground. He was sick of being useless, sick of running helpless. He would do something to help, even if he died just the same anyway.

Just as he was about to launch himself at the brute in a suicidal charge, something beat him to it. It came out of nowhere, out of the night itself. It looked like and yet unlike Gluskin's shadow form, both insubstantial and solid enough to lift the hostile vampire into the air and slam  him into the wall of a nearby house. He didn't stay down for long, but the wraith was on him again instantly. Waylon clung onto Gluskin's arm as he watched the quick, brutal struggle. He could see the wraith more clearly now, could see the humanoid shape within the dark cloud that seemed to send black dots scurrying across his vision. He couldn't explain it, but his mind  _itched_ when he looked directly at that murky shape. He felt an absolute and inexplicable dread of the thing turning its gaze upon him. 

It lifted the giant into the air again and threw it around like a rag-doll before pouring itself down into the giant's mouth. Waylon watched in horror as the massive vampire convulsed and then let out a blood-chilling scream. His eyes turned black, and then he burst apart. The wraith exploded out of the vampire's body with bloody force, tearing the wretched creature open from the inside. Blood flew everywhere, splashing the road, the walls of the houses, and covering Waylon where he stood, clutching Gluskin's arm. Gluskin dropped to the floor in a swoon and pulled Waylon down with him. Waylon felt like a nest of hornets was buzzing in his skull, and that sense of dread, of absolute terror, was with him still as the wraith finally found him with its black, vacant eyes. Waylon's insides turned to liquid, and tears sprang unbidden from his eyes. He felt like a little child again, facing down a bogeyman come to life. His fingers had gone numb, causing him to drop his makeshift weapon. He knelt in the mud and blood on the ground and watched the wraith advance. Its face was a distorted skull, its eyes were bottomless voids. Waylon closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at its awful visage, but the sight of it persisted even behind his eyelids. Feeling himself to be in the presence of true evil, Waylon whimpered and awaited his death.

When it didn't come, he slowly opened his eyes.

The wraith was gone.

At last, all was quiet. The fires were burning still, but as Waylon took a smoke-filled breath, a drop of rain alighted on his cheek. It was followed by other drops, a slow drizzle at first, but then the rain came faster and heavier until Waylon was soaked through to the skin.

But it was too late to save the village.

Waylon looked down at Gluskin's maimed form. He had fainted in the presence of the mysterious wraith, but he came to now, and when his bloodshot eyes met Waylon’s, Waylon tried and failed to fight down a fresh wave of tears. His home was destroyed, his family killed, but for some reason the thought of losing his master as well was just too much.

"No," he muttered. "You can't leave me alone." Scowling bitterly, he pushed up his sleeve and pressed his wrist to Gluskin's mouth. Gluskin fastened his jaws on Waylon's wrist and sucked hard. Waylon, who had reached his limit hours ago and only continued on with the help of adrenaline and pure, stubborn willpower, felt dizziness descend immediately. He slumped over Gluskin's body, giving in to a sweet oblivion where he would not have to mourn the loss of his family or his home, or even his master; but as darkness closed at last around him he was aware of cold arms around him, holding him tethered to the earth. Dull pleasure radiated from his punctured wrist, lulling his mind and soothing the pain in both his body, and his soul.

 

* * *

 

Waylon awoke in a warm, soft bed in a room that smelled faintly of roses. Opening his eyes, he found himself in his own chamber in the castle. The curtains around his bed were tied back, as were those at the window. Outside the window, the sky was the deep, purplish-turquoise of twilight. Someone had laid on a fire, and Waylon was grateful for the warmth even though it was getting on for summer. He lay there for a while without moving, only listening to the crackling of the fire. Bit by bit, memories came back to him: the secret door and the staircase beyond, the labyrinth, and then the locked chamber that housed a captive monster. He hadn't put two and two together before, but here in the stillness and the quiet he could grasp what had eluded him in the panic of the moment—the dead woman in Gluskin's cellar had to be Eleanor, the very first bride he had loved and lost. Gluskin had tried to turn her, but had failed. The girl he'd loved had died and left behind that husk, and perhaps Gluskin had kept it out of a twisted desire to keep her near, but Waylon thought it was more likely he simply hadn't had the heart to end it. Gluskin was mad, of course, but he was also sentimental. Waylon had seen the shimmer in his eyes when he looked at Eleanor's portrait. He had really loved her, inasmuch as a monster like him could love at all.

Thinking of his master, more memories came. He remembered seeing flames in the valley, and he remembered running into that hideous monster of a vampire ransacking the village. Headless bodies lying in the street, the air thick with the scents of blood and smoke… Had anyone even survived? Was he the only one left alive?

"Lisa…" Shame and loss like a knife through his chest, Waylon closed his eyes and rolled onto his side. He was heavy with grief, he felt like he was sinking down into and through the feather mattress, down and further down, into an abyss from which he would never return. He didn't want to get up again. Lisa was gone, his children were gone. And where had he been at the crucial moment? He had thrown away his life with them to come and be a vampire's blood-slave instead, and just hours before his family's demise he had been wrapped around said vampire in the library, begging him to fuck him.

He covered his face with his hands. A great dry sob heaved through his body.

He was so lost in his own misery that he didn't hear the door open and shut. He started at the first touch of a hand against his shoulder. He rolled over and found himself staring up into bright blue eyes, and surprised himself by throwing himself into Gluskin's arms.

"Darling?" Gluskin said softly. Waylon squeezed him tight. The last time Waylon had seen him, he had been little more than a shredded corpse, but now he seemed to be whole and solid once more. Waylon ran his hands over his arms and torso to check, which made Gluskin laugh. "Darling, I'm all right. Were you worried?"

Waylon nodded, still pressing his face against Gluskin's middle. The vampire gently pried him off and sat down on the side of the bed. Waylon wiped his face and sat up properly, embarrassed by his show of weakness. At the same moment, he was speared by shame again, because for those few brief moments he had been so relieved and happy to find his master alive that he had completely forgotten about his family.

"How are you alive?" he asked slowly. "How can either of us be alive? That thing…"

"I survived thanks to you, my love," Gluskin said. His eyes shone with affection and pride.

"What  _was_ that thing? Either of them?" 

"I know what  _one_ of them was—or rather who. As to the other, I'm afraid I'm as in the dark as you. The giant was a creature belonging to an old adversary of mine, a perpetual thorn in my side. I'm ashamed that he bested me. My only excuse is that he never would have been so strong if he hadn't fed so extensively beforehand…" He fell silent. Perhaps he saw the sick look on Waylon's face. Of course, Gluskin fed only rarely since Waylon made his displeasure at the act  clear , and as far as Waylon knew he drank only from Waylon; the giant had doubtless drunk deep of every unfortunate soul he had come across in the village until he was glutted with blood. No wonder Gluskin had lost when he kept himself half starved at all times. 

Waylon looked out the window at the darkening sky, a complicated knot of feelings weighing heavy in his stomach. "How long was I asleep?"

"Two days. I drained you almost to the point of death," Gluskin admitted.

Waylon's hand flew to his neck. "You didn't…?"

"Turn you? No." Gluskin reached out and caressed Waylon's cheek. Waylon hated how easy it was to lean into that touch. "When I do change you, I want it to be perfect. I never want to get it wrong again…" He dropped his gaze.

After a pause, Waylon said, "I'm sorry about Eleanor."

Gluskin turned away from him and sat with his elbows on his knees, his shoulders hunched. When he spoke again, his voice was thick with grief. "It was long past her time," he said. "I… I was a fool to hold on as long as I did. I think it was a kindness, in the end…"

"For her, or for you?" Waylon said softly.

Gluskin laughed sadly. "Both, perhaps." He turned and looked at Waylon again, and his eyes glistened with tears. He smiled. "You really are a wonder, my darling. You really wouldn't stand for sharing me, would you?"

It was then Waylon realised he had placed a claim on Gluskin, down in the cellar, just as surely as the vampire had claimed him. Unwittingly or not, he had made his demand, and Gluskin had met it. He shook his head. "I suppose not." He looked away because he didn't know what to do with the intensity of Gluskin's adoring gaze. He said, "Is there anything left of the village at all?"

"A lot of it is burned," Gluskin said. "But it might be rebuilt. The damage wasn't so devastating."

"Did… did anyone survive?" Waylon was almost afraid to even ask. He dreaded the answer.

To his surprise, Gluskin smiled and said, "Yes. I had them brought up to the castle until their homes can be repaired."

"You did what?"

"There's more than enough room here, and while we might have to spread the stores a little thin, there's enough to see everyone through until winter."

"Why would you… why are you doing this? You don't have to help them."

"It's a poor lord who lets all his people starve," Gluskin said. "And besides… I thought it might make you happy."

"It does make me happy." Waylon laughed even though his heart was now in his throat. Could he dare to even hope…? "Can I see them?"

Gluskin blinked in surprise. "Won't you eat something first? You ought to get your strength up-"

"Please!" He started to get out of the bed, grabbing onto Gluskin for support. Gluskin clucked and lifted him into his arms, then stood and took a step toward the door. Waylon held onto him, already feeling dizzy just from the exertion of trying to stand, but he breathed deeply and rode it out. Gluskin wrapped the shadows around himself, and the next moment they were in the great hall. Waylon looked around as Gluskin set him on his feet. The hearths were lit for the first time Waylon had ever seen, and clusters of people were scattered around them—people Waylon recognised from what now felt like a former life. There was the village baker, the candle-maker, the pig farmer and his wife; the priest had suffered an injury to his shoulder and was being tended by Sam from the kitchens with his makeshift surgeon's kit. More of Gluskin's boys scurried here and there waiting on the villagers, seeing they were fed and warm, laying out pallets and blankets for sleeping. A girl sat by one of the great fireplaces and sobbed, and Waylon recognised her yellow hair from afar—it was Susanna, the girl whose place he had usurped. He wondered for a moment how Susanna might have fared against Eleanor. But his focus narrowed the moment his eyes picked out the three people he hadn't really dared to look for, and he left Gluskin's side and ran towards them. Lisa looked up—most everyone had noticed Lord Gluskin's entrance now, and the great hall was falling quiet, only the castle staff undaunted by their master's presence. Waylon stumbled and fell to his knees as he reached Lisa, and she caught him in her arms. He held onto her tight, and gathered up the boys, his sons Thomas and Evan, into his arms as well, and for several minutes they only cried together.

"I thought you were dead," Waylon told her.

Lisa leaned back on her heels and cast a critical, if teary, eye over him. "You look terrible," she said. Her gaze fell to where Waylon's collar hung open, and the pink-white bite marks upon his neck were clearly visible. Waylon tugged his collar back into place. Leaning closer, Lisa whispered, "Is it really awful?"

"It's… It's complicated," Waylon said, earning a quizzical look. "But how did you get out? I saw the village, it was a bloodbath-"

"The bogeyman came and warned us," said Thomas.

Waylon tilted his head. Lisa ruffled the boy's hair and said, "Thomas swears he saw something in the woods outside the house, before the attack." She shook her head.

"I did! I followed it into the trees-"

"And I had to chase after you," said Lisa. To Waylon, she said, "It was just as well. Our house was one of the first ones hit- If we'd been at home… Well."

"It was really scary," said Thomas.

Waylon nodded as he took little Evan into his arms and cuddled him. "I know, Tommy. It was scary for your mother and I too."

"When are you coming home?"

"I… I'm not sure, sweetheart. But I know Lord Gluskin will let you all stay here at the castle, because everyone's houses need to be fixed."

"He's scary too," Thomas said sullenly. Then he retreated into Lisa's arms, and Lisa looked past Waylon's shoulder, drawing back as she did so. Waylon didn't need to turn around to know Gluskin was there.

"Waylon," he said softly. "You ought to rest. You're not well."

Waylon wanted to snap a retort, but he judged it best not to push the matter just now. The last time Gluskin had seen Lisa, he had been fully prepared to kill her in order to free Waylon up for marriage. Now Lisa was in such conveniently close proximity, Waylon didn't want to remind Gluskin of the idea. Instead, he said, "Of course," and handed Evan back to Lisa. He stood, accepting Gluskin's arm for support when his head started to spin. Lisa rose too, and glared daggers at Gluskin. Waylon could tell from her face that her fear of the vampire was at war with her fury, and possibly on the losing side.

"Come back upstairs, my darling," Gluskin said, placing a possessive hand on Waylon's shoulder. "You're exhausted."

He moved to lift Waylon again, but Waylon stopped him with a gesture and said, "I'll walk." He longed to kiss Lisa, but with Gluskin right there it was impossible. In spite of how far he and Gluskin had come, it was a stark reminder that Waylon and his entire family were still helplessly in Gluskin's control. He had to content himself with his family's safety, even if it was only for now.

"Come," Gluskin said, and began to steer Waylon out of the hall through a side door. Waylon bid Lisa goodbye with his eyes, and went with his master.

 

* * *

 

Not three paces outside the great hall and Gluskin backed Waylon against the wall with a hand around his throat. He didn't grip tightly, the touch was more like a possessive caress, but Waylon was under no illusion that he might break away. Leaning in close, Gluskin said, "You made your position clear, darling, but you can't have it both ways."

"W-what?"

Gluskin leaned even closer, his hand tightening reflexively around Waylon's neck. He relaxed his grip after a moment and pressed his brow against Waylon's. "You  _know_ what," he said in a pained whisper. "I'll take no other wife but you. You made that clear. I killed Eleanor for you…"

Waylon swallowed thickly. He brought his hands to Gluskin's. "I understand," he murmured. His chest ached, and he wanted to scream at Gluskin for the unfairness of it all—he wanted to yell that he never asked for this… But of course, he had. "Please. You don't have to hurt them. I'll… I'll stay away from them. From her. I swear it."

After a tense pause, Gluskin nodded. Waylon understood him, even though he didn't like it. After all, by forcing Gluskin's hand with Eleanor it was Waylon who had pushed things to this point. Waylon got the picture—Lisa was dead to Waylon, or else she really would be. She might be safe from some monsters by sheltering in the castle, but not from the one that mattered. If Lisa put a foot wrong, or if Waylon forgot his promise, Gluskin wouldn't have to go far to make good on his unspoken threat.

Gluskin released Waylon and stepped back. He turned and started to walk away, but Waylon called after him, "Wait!" Gluskin turned back, frowning expectantly. Waylon was hurting, but he still remembered Gluskin standing in front of him, protecting him from the giant in the valley and getting torn to shreds for his trouble. "I never said thank you," Waylon said. He gestured toward the door to the great hall. "For giving them shelter, and making sure they were safe. All of them." Gluskin nodded, and said nothing. "And… thank you for saving me, as well. I'm… I'm in your debt."

Gluskin's expression softened at last. "Oh, darling, you're not. I would protect you with my life, a thousand times over. All I ask in return is your loyalty and your love."

 

Gluskin helped Waylon return to his room, and bid him goodnight at the door. Night had fallen fully, but tonight Waylon had no wish to join his master in the library for their usual routine. He felt exhausted and sick, and was hugely grateful for the tray he found on the dressing table that boasted a bowl of hot soup paired with soft bread rolls. Before sitting down to eat, he crossed to the window to draw the curtains. He glanced out the window at the valley, dark now—darker than Waylon had ever seen it, without even the glow of candlelight in a single window. Only the lights of the castle were visible, and the stars and moon above; everything else was darkness, like the castle were an island surrounded by a sea of black.

He managed only a few mouthfuls of the soup before he was too tired to continue. He retreated to the bed, and didn't even have the energy to close the curtains around it before dragging himself beneath the blankets. As he was falling into much-needed sleep, he made a mental note to ask his master in the morning if anybody had found Billy.


	6. The Invitation

Gluskin had meant it when he had promised to take care of the displaced villagers. He saw to it they were clothed, fed, and found more comfortable lodgings than the draughty old great hall. He even went down to the village himself, along with a cadre of his boys, to collect up, and dig graves for, the dead. The fallen were buried in the village churchyard, and the priest was able to hold a twilit service in their memory despite his injury. Waylon attended, but under the strictly watchful eye of his “husband”—he avoided making eye contact with Lisa, and he held himself apart from the other villagers. It felt strange, and yet not as terrible as he might have thought. He felt separate from them now, like he had moved beyond their world and could never go back. It rained all the way through the service. Somehow the church had avoided the worst of the destruction, but the sight of the village’s other soot-blackened buildings, many of which had their roofs entirely burned away, was enough to set a bleak, hopeless feeling in Waylon’s breast that somehow even the bodies they were laying to rest hadn’t done.

The rainy spell lasted several days, with only brief glimpses of the sun. While the cloudy weather persisted, Gluskin took a crew down to the village once more, this time to begin the repairs. The group was made up of a mixture of Gluskin’s staff, and village men, and a couple of women. Waylon insisted on being allowed to join them.

He had thought the other village men might treat him coldly, but quite the opposite—they didn’t view him as someone who had abandoned them or the village; instead they held him in high respect for his sacrifice. It helped that one of the men on the work team was the father of Susanna, the girl whose life Waylon had likely saved through his actions. Gluskin himself put his superhuman strength and endurance to good use, shocking everyone by doing much of the heavier work himself. He would retreat to the shade of the trees at midday when the sun was at its highest, but other than that he worked as tirelessly as only a supernatural creature could.

While the men from the village were friendly to Waylon, they were afraid of Gluskin. Waylon didn’t blame them; they hadn’t had weeks to get to know him like Waylon had, as far as they were concerned he was the same terrifying overlord who devoured their virgin daughters and would eviscerate a man if he felt the passing whim. For his part, Gluskin didn’t waste his time trying to correct these notions. In fact, he barely deigned to speak with them at all, so it was left to Waylon to take charge in terms of directing what needed to be done and in what order. It was hard work, and Waylon was grateful for it. It prevented him from dwelling on the fact that he had been absent when his home and his people had been attacked, and it also gave him little time to wonder about Lisa and the kids up in the castle. Most nights he would, upon retiring, find sleep easily due to his extreme tiredness, but some nights he found himself lying awake and fighting off the urge to sneak away and visit his family. The survivors had been moved from the great hall into an uninhabited wing of the castle. Waylon knew where to find them, and on those sleepless nights he would wonder what Lisa and the children were doing, how they were liking their new accommodations, what they thought of the whole situation. Was Evan all right? He was such a quiet child, he hardly ever cried. What effect would this disruption have on his young mind and heart? And what about Thomas, who was so young and yet so full of strong opinions already? Thinking of Thomas reminded Waylon of the last time he had spoken to the boy, when Thomas and Lisa had explained that the only reason the family had escaped the giant’s rampage was because Tommy had seen a “bogeyman” in the woods and chased after it. It chilled Waylon’s blood. He could only imagine the shadowy figure of the nightmarish phantom that had torn the giant apart. It had saved Waylon and Gluskin’s lives in destroying the giant, but why had it targeted the giant at all? And why had it spared Waylon and his master when it was clearly easy for it to rend even a powerful vampire limb from limb in an instant? Waylon hadn’t gotten any sense of what or who it was; it had seemed alien in a way that even Gluskin’s blood-sucking kind didn’t, and the only feeling he had picked up from it was one of malice, of primordial evil. What on earth had it wanted? Where had it come from? And more importantly, was it still out there?  


One evening, after a hard day’s work, Waylon went to see Gluskin. The vampire had taken to squirrelling himself away in his study after dark writing letters and doing god only knew what else. Their nightly dinners had ceased after Eleanor’s death, as had their long, companionable evenings in the library. Just lately, Waylon was too exhausted at the end of the day to mind, having only enough energy to eat a few mouthfuls of whatever Sam had sent up for him before collapsing into bed. If he stopped to think about it too long, however, he would think he missed it. Tonight, he went directly to the vampire’s private study, knocked hard on the door and didn’t wait before opening it and barging in. Gluskin was at his desk, bent over a mess of papers and with a pen in his hand. He wore his shirt with the collar open and the sleeves rolled up. Waylon had rarely seen him look so rumpled. He looked up when Waylon entered, uninvited, and while his face showed surprise, Waylon didn’t see any displeasure at being interrupted.

“I want to talk to you,” Waylon announced.

“Evidently. Why don’t you sit?” He gestured toward the chaise. Waylon sat down, and Gluskin turned in his chair to face him.

Waylon cut straight to the heart of the matter that had been bothering him since the night the night the village burned. “You said you knew the vampire that attacked the village.”

“I said he belonged to an old enemy, yes.”

“So you know who sent him? You know who was responsible?”

“Oh yes, I know who was responsible. And I have a fair inkling as to  _why_ , as well.”

“What?” said Waylon, in disbelief. “It’s been  days  and you never said anything . People died, and you’re not even going to do anything about it? You’re just going to let it go unanswered?” 

“Oh, no. No, darling, quite the opposite. The vermin responsible will pay for what they did. Invading my territory without provocation, slaughtering my people. It’s an insult of massive proportions. There was never any question of such a thing going unavenged. Unfortunately, it may have to wait.”

“Why is that?”

“Darling, things are more complicated than you think. The giant’s name was Christopher Walker, the creature of a vampire named Jeremy Blaire. Blaire controls the territory directly to the north of mine. He is also considerably more powerful than me, I hate to say. Not personally, perhaps, but his resources and connections far outstrip mine. He styles himself as a prince of the un-dead.” He pulled a face. “Making a move against him right now would be… unwise.”

“So what? You’re just going to roll over and take it?”

Gluskin winced. He picked up a card from his desk and held it out. After a moment, Waylon took it.

“Outwardly,” Gluskin said. “At least for now. Don’t look at me like that, darling, I like it even less than you. You haven’t had to deal with that lizard for centuries already. But there are politics to consider, among other things. We’re in a weakened position at the moment-”

“But you do have allies, don’t you? Sam said you had friends.” Waylon was shocked at the fierceness of his outrage, but he wanted justice for what was done. The idea that they had to simply accept being walked all over was too galling to bear.

“When did you talk to…? Well, that doesn’t matter. In answer to your question: that’s what I’m hoping to find out. That card in your hand is an invitation to a get-together that is held every year at Blaire’s estate, at midsummer. I propose we attend and find out as much as we can about whatever Blaire is up to, and also test the waters to see if we might have allies willing to side with us against him when the time comes.”

“Seems timid,” Waylon said. He inspected the card. The invitation was written in flowing calligraphy, in blood-red ink, and was embossed at the top with the shape of a trefoil knot.

“Yes, well. We can’t all be as recklessly brave as you, darling, barging into ghouls’ crypts and dashing off into burning villages without a weapon or a plan.”

Waylon raised a brow. “You saved me both those times,” he pointed out.

“Yes, at considerable risk to myself,” Gluskin replied. Waylon lowered his eyes. He remembered too well the awful sight of Gluskin with his guts torn out, mutilated beyond anything a living man could endure, and all for the sake of protecting Waylon. Shame stung his cheeks, but Gluskin didn’t further berate him. “The point is, I’ve no means to launch an attack and no basis to accuse him. He’s been after my territory for years, and he’s not the only one, either.”

“What for?”

“Damned if I know. The land contains several sites of occult significance, I suppose, but most of all I think it simply rankles that I won’t give it to him. I can’t imagine why he would go on the offensive  _now_ of all times, though. Yet another thing I intend to find out when we meet him.” 

“Why do you keep saying  _we_ ?”

“Why, you’re coming with me, of course,” Gluskin said. “You will be accompanying me, as my bride. My consort.”

“Oh, no. No. I don’t think so.”

“It’s already decided, my love. I sent the messenger off with my reply not twenty minutes before you came in. I’m going to create the most beautiful ensemble for you, you’ll be a vision. The absolute belle of the ball.”

 

* * *

 

 

In the weeks leading up to midsummer, Waylon spent his days hard at work in the valley, hewing timbers and thatching roofs. When the weather allowed, Gluskin joined in the effort, but the onset of summer, even a rainy summer, made it more uncomfortable for him to venture out in the day. By night, Gluskin sequestered himself in the library, and when Waylon tried to join him he was shooed out. Waylon came to understand Gluskin was creating costumes for the upcoming “get together”, and it wasn’t until a week before they were to leave that Waylon was allowed to see what he was working on. Gluskin came up to Waylon’s chamber late one evening, after Waylon had taken his bath and was sitting on the bed while his hair dried, sleepily reading a book purloined from the library.

“May I come in?” Gluskin said with a smile when Waylon answered his knock. He had a swathe of pale fabric draped over his arm.

“I’m surprised you didn’t come straight in,” Waylon said, and stepped away from the door, beckoning him to enter.

“I would never,” Gluskin said. Then, in response to Waylon’s questioning look, he said, “It’s time for your fitting.”

“I said I wouldn’t wear a dress,” Waylon said.

“I know, I know. Just bear with me. Here.” Waylon took the bundle of clothes and raised his eyebrows. Gluskin turned his back. “I’m sorry.”

“Mm.” Waylon set the new clothes on the bed, looked at them for a moment, and then took off his nightshirt and started to put the new garments on. He threw an occasional glance at Gluskin’s back, making sure he was still averting his eyes—and perhaps a tiny part of him hoping he wasn’t.

Gluskin remained a gentleman, but there came a point when Waylon couldn’t continue on his own. “I need your help,” he said. “It fastens in the back.”

“What do you think?” Gluskin said, turning around and coming to aid Waylon with the laces. The gown was androgynous and unconventional. A long skirt made of heavy folds of white and crimson brocade, laced tightly at Waylon’s waist, fell to the floor and extended behind him in a short train. The top half was made of sheer white lace and fitted sleekly to his body, with long sleeves and a high neck and studded here and there with twinkling red gems. Gluskin pulled the laces so tight Waylon struggled to catch his breath, and then directed Waylon toward the mirror. Waylon turned to look, and beheld a stranger. The person in the mirror was a slender, androgynous beauty with golden hair, delicate cheekbones and slumberous dark eyes. He was shocked. Was this what Gluskin saw? The gown itself gave the impression of snow and roses, although the red pattern in the brocade was abstract.

“Don’t forget this, the finishing touch,” said Gluskin and, with a flourish, handed Waylon a little white velvet mask decorated with more red gems and a froth of white lace. “Did I mention it’s a masked ball?” Waylon took it from him and put it on. Pushed back from his face, the translucent lace formed a veil that covered his hair and tumbled down his back. He looked like a winter bride stepped straight out of a fairy tale. At a midsummer ball, he would certainly stand out.

“How did you… Where did all this come from?” He couldn’t take his eyes off the figure in the mirror.

“I may have plumbed the family vaults for the jewels. The lace and the rest, I’ve had lying around for ages just waiting for the right muse to come along.”

Waylon turned this way and that, admiring how the skirt swung with his movements. It felt strange to wear a skirt, but he liked the sensation of the silken underskirt caressing his legs. Gluskin had designed the costume to accentuate Waylon’s naturally slim waist and create the very subtle illusion of hips. “You’ve been working on this for longer than a few weeks,” he said. It had to be so. Even a vampire with superhuman abilities would have to take months to create a marvel like this.

“Perhaps,” Gluskin admitted.

“One of your other brides?” Waylon said sourly.

“No, no. No… for some reason I always kept this design in reserve, secret. I think in my heart I knew I was saving it for someone special.” Standing behind him, he touched Waylon’s jaw to tilt his face up, coaxing Waylon to stare into his own eyes. “I think I was saving it for you.”

 

* * *

 

At last, the time came to leave. It was a warm, balmy evening, and the sky was free of clouds, the air filled with the scents of summer blooms. Gluskin had the carriage brought around to the courtyard. The carriage didn’t get much use, but it gleamed, evidently having had a fresh coat of paint especially for this trip. Their trunks were already loaded, and all that remained was to step aboard. Gluskin handed Waylon up the step and inside, and then followed behind. The driver, a man Waylon hadn’t had chance to meet before, closed the door for them and took his place up at the front. He clicked to the horses, a matched pair of black geldings, and then they were on their way.

For the first leg of the journey they were travelling through Gluskin’s own territory. The forest through which the road wound became pitch dark as the night descended fully. Waylon tried to look out of the windows, but there was no view to speak of, not even the starry sky once the trees closed over the road. There was a single lamp swinging up at the front of the carriage with the driver, but Waylon didn’t think it could do much good; he had no idea how the man could see where to even drive in this dark. Disappointed, he sank back into the velvet upholstered bench. Gluskin had taken the seat opposite him, and he watched him with a faint smile, his eyes glinting in the darkness.

“You should get some rest,” he told Waylon. “We’ll be a long way on the road.”

“Can’t you just,” Waylon waved his hand vaguely. “Transport us there?”

Gluskin smiled wider and said, “Not beyond the borders of my territory,” he said. “Besides, it’s too far. Even my powers have limits, my love, especially when… well.”

He didn’t have to finish. Waylon knew his master was weakened due to not having fed. “Do you need to…?”

Gluskin shook his head. “I can survive, darling, as long as you don’t mind a little bit of a journey. Just sit back and try to relax. You don’t get travel sick, do you?”

“I don’t know,” Waylon said. “I’ve never ridden in one of these before.”

He leant back on the seat, and tried various positions as he tried to recline in a way that was comfortable enough to rest. After several minutes of this, Gluskin clicked his tongue and beckoned. Waylon crossed the carriage and took a place beside Gluskin, who drew him into his arms. He turned side-on and brought one foot up onto the seat to make room for Waylon to lie back against him, his back against Gluskin’s chest. When Gluskin fastened his arms around him, Waylon let out a sigh and his eyes fluttered shut. Gluskin’s embrace wasn’t warm, but it was reassuringly firm, and his arms around him meant the jostling, rocking motion caused by the jouncing of the carriage was minimised.

“Just rest,” Gluskin said again. “We have the whole night ahead of us to travel.”

“Won’t you be bored?” Waylon asked.

Gluskin gave a little laugh. “Like this?” He gave Waylon a squeeze. “Not a chance.”

 

They travelled all through the night. Waylon slept most of it away, in fits and starts, and by the time the sky began to lighten his stomach was growling.

“Is it much farther?” he asked.

“Still a way to go, I’m afraid,” Gluskin said. He reached beneath the seat and pulled out a basket. “Cook had me bring this along for you. I forget how quickly mortals get hungry.” He whisked the cloth off the top of the basket to reveal a little packed breakfast, with bread rolls, a little dish of butter, a big wedge of cheese, and a generous helping of berries from one of the gardens. It had all been carefully wrapped and stowed, and Waylon was touched at Sam’s foresight and kindness.

As he ate , he said, “I  never told you what happened in between, that night, did I? After I left you and Eleanor…”  _After you chased me away_ , he thought. “I found my way to the kitchens, completely by accident, and Sam and the others patched me up.” He lifted his sleeve to look at the ugly scar that still marred his forearm where the ghoul that had once been Gluskin’s first wife, Eleanor, had bitten him. Or rather, to look at the bandages that covered it. He had changed the bandages a number of times already since that night, under Sam’s advice, and applied a herb al salve from a pot Sam had sent him; each time he looked at it, it shocked him anew. It  _was_ healing, but very, very slowly. The skin all around the site of the wound was snarled and livid red. Sam had been worried it would fester, that Eleanor’s bite would poison him somehow, but as yet it merely lingered.

“You’ve the master to thank for that,” Sam had said when Waylon had visited him for more of the salve. “If he hadn’t already put his mark on you, her curse would’ve eaten you up.”

“What do you know about it?” Waylon had asked, but Sam hadn’t been any more forthcoming.

In the carriage, Gluskin sat across from Waylon once more. His face was grave, and somehow even paler than usual. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “It seems I’m always saying that. I promise I’ll never let you get that hurt again. You must have been so frightened.”

Waylon was growing used to Gluskin’s apologies, and somewhat inured to them. He was always sorry, and he always meant it—but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be something else along the line that he would also be sorry for, later.

“You didn’t let her kill me, so that’s something,” Waylon said. The look of shame on his master’s face shouldn’t have pleased him as much as it did.

“And let you run off to face that  _thing_ instead,” Gluskin said with a frown and a shudder. “No. I promise to keep a much closer eye on you from now on. I simply won’t let you out of my sight.” 

“Well, you might have to,” Waylon said as he polished off a piece of bread and cheese. “I need to piss.”

“Darling! So crude.”

Waylon shrugged. “I’m mortal, with mortal appetites and mortal needs. What, don’t vampires piss?”

Flustered, Gluskin did not reply. He had the driver stop the carriage, and Waylon clambered out by himself and ambled a short way into the woods. He looked over his shoulder, saw Gluskin worriedly looking up and down the road, and then went a little further into the trees. The sun was up, the sky was blue with only a few wisps of white cloud in sight, and the sun was already bright and hot. No wonder Gluskin didn’t want to leave the shade of the carriage. Waylon understood that, while he wasn’t about to burst into flames at the first touch of sun, the vampire did find direct sunlight uncomfortable, perhaps even painful, and he always seemed weaker and wearier in the daylight hours.

The woods pressed very close to the edge of the road. It was cooler under the trees, and it got darker every step Waylon took. Waylon walked until he was no longer visible from the road before unlacing his breeches and relieving himself against a tall, straight tree. He sighed and closed his eyes. He felt rumpled, and they had only been travelling a single night. They still had a long way to go, by all accounts.

When he opened his eyes, there was a face in front of him. He yelled and jerked back. It was gone as soon as he blinked, making him doubt he had even seen it all—except that the sight of it was burned onto his mind. It was burned there because he recognised it. It was the same face he had seen the night of the attack on the village, the face of the dark phantom that had torn the rampaging giant up like so much wet paper.

“Darling?” He heard a cry behind him, and he fumbled with his clothing as he moved toward Gluskin’s voice. The vampire was with him the next second, his hands hard on Waylon’s shoulders. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Waylon swore and pointed back the way he had come, back toward the straight tree with the silvery bark. Of course, there was nothing to see there now, only the dappled shadows of the leaves above, and the blotchy patterns of the bark. “I saw… a face. I saw it.”

“Is someone there?”

Waylon shook his head and tried again. “No, I saw  _it_ . That  _thing_ , the shadow thing. It was right in front of me.” He felt cold, in spite of the warm morning. Gluskin left him and prowled around, looking for any sign of an enemy. He found nothing, and returned to Waylon’s side. “Let’s go,” Waylon said. Gluskin put his arm around him and walked him back to the carriage. Waylon absently fixed his clothing as he walked, and let Gluskin bundle him back into the carriage without complaint. 

They set off again immediately. Waylon sat tensely for a while, staring out the window without seeing the trees. When more time passed and still nothing happened, he finally let himself take a deeper breath and start to relax.

“Close the curtains, won’t you, darling?”

Waylon turned to look at Gluskin. The vampire was reclining in a shadowy corner of the carriage, his eyes closed. Waylon suddenly realised he was looking at potentially many hours of riding inside a closed, dark, airless carriage in what was turning out to be the warmest day of the year so far, and he grimaced. “I’m going to ride up top,” he said. “You can get some rest.”

“I don’t need rest-”

“Well, you can do whatever you want, then. I’m still going up top. I’ve never been beyond our valley and I want to see the views.” Gluskin nodded, and Waylon opened the door and clambered up. They were travelling at a walk, and Waylon found it easy to hop up to join the driver without needing to stop. The driver was startled at Waylon’s sudden appearance, but he made room for Waylon to sit beside him. Unlike most of Gluskin’s staff, this boy didn’t sport any obvious scars or deformities, but he didn’t meet Waylon’s eyes. Waylon didn’t mind. He took a deep breath of the fresh forest air and was sure he had made the right decision.

“What’s your name?” Waylon asked after a minute.

“Kit, sir. Or… ma’am?”

“Waylon is fine.”

“The horses’ll want a rest soon,” Kit said. He hadn’t asked for an explanation for Waylon’s joining him, and Waylon didn’t think it was necessary. “They’re hardier than most but they’re still mortal like you and I.”

Waylon suspected it wasn’t just the horses that needed a rest. The driver had bags under his eyes, and Waylon, in spite of dozing through the night, suspected he didn’t look much better. And as for their master, he had been pushing himself over the last few days and weeks, going without rest or sustenance; he might be a vampire, but Waylon suspected even a vampire had limits.

Kit turned off a short time later, drove a short distance into the forest on a trail he seemed to know well, and stopped the carriage in a grassy clearing. He unhitched the horses by the bank of a shallow stream and let them graze. Waylon didn’t feel like straying far, the morning’s fright still fresh in his mind, but he scrubbed his face in the stream and wandered within view of the carriage to stretch his legs. It was a peaceful, restful interlude, and Waylon felt more refreshed by it than by a whole night of fitful sleep.

The sun wasn’t far past its zenith when they set off again. This time they drove until well into the night. Waylon passed some of the afternoon sitting up top with Kit and watching the forest go by, but the endless parade of trees and dense foliage on either side of the grassy dirt track, broken up only occasionally by the crumbled ruins of old settlements, became monotonous. He returned to the carriage’s interior, where he found Gluskin dozing. He woke when Waylon joined him, and Waylon quizzed him about their destination.

“I suppose it would be a large city by your standards,” the vampire mused. “It’s the trade centre for the region, but it’s also a hotbed of filth and depravity. Blaire and his cronies have their nest there, in a palace Blaire had built for himself. Prince Jeremy _._ Pah.” He wrinkled his nose. “There’s not a drop of actual royal blood in him, save what he’s drained from members of the old ruling families. I remember the place from before, of course.”

“When you were still-”

“Still mortal, yes. It was much smaller, a little town built around a coastal fort. It was quite picturesque. Blaire had the original fort torn down, of course, and his mockery of a palace built in its place. He’s putting us up in the palace, of course.”

“How terrible,” Waylon said, glancing out the window to hide his smirk. He wondered how long there’d been bad blood between Gluskin and Blaire, and how much of it was political, how much personal. He’d never really considered the idea of such vendettas between the ruling vampires before. He’d thought of them as one united entity, he supposed; one species, of one mind. But of course, they were just as fallible as humans, and as territorial as cats. It stood to reason that rivalries and squabbles would arise, and when the parties involved were immortal, he supposed grudges lasted for centuries.

Gluskin wasn’t amused. “They will try to turn your head, darling. Try to  _corrupt_ you.” 

Waylon turned back to him with raised brows. “Me? Why would they be interested in me?”

“For the fun of it, for sport. Because you’re naive and fresh and new to the city and all its questionable pleasures. Because you’re beautiful. Because you’re mine.”

“I’m not naive. I’m over thirty years old.”

“A mere blink of an eye,” Gluskin said with a dismissive wave of his hand. Waylon pulled a face. “They’ll try to turn you into one of their  _whores_ . I want you to know, before we get there and you see for yourself, that I may have to mix with these unsavoury creatures out of necessity, but that doesn’t mean I agree with how they do things. I don’t share their low morals, their wickedness…” 

Waylon suspected Gluskin had more of a depraved streak than he liked to acknowledge, but he kept his thoughts to himself. Wilfully, he said, “I’ll be fine. I’ve handled myself around you, haven’t I?”

Gluskin’s eyes darkened. “I know exactly how you’ve handled yourself, my dear, and let yourself be handled.”

Waylon’s cheeks reddened, and he scowled. “I’ll keep my guard up, I’ve got it.”

It was full dark before they stopped again. Looking out of the carriage window, Waylon saw a building, little more than a cabin, set a ways back from the road. It looked like something out of a tale, its windows lit from within and glowing golden in the midst of the dark forest. There was no wall around it, not even a fence. The woods encroached on all sides of its little yard, dense and shadowed, all in shades of muted grey in the starlight. There was a shed off to the side that presumably served as a stable, and what looked like a woodshed beside a neglected vegetable garden. It looked more like somebody’s private home than any kind of inn, but the painted sign above the door proclaimed otherwise. Waylon couldn’t quite see what the image on the sign was supposed to be, as it was obscured by huge scratches in the wood, almost like claw marks, but it looked like it could have been a crescent moon.

Seeing Waylon’s weary eyes and the way he yawned when they got out of the carriage, Gluskin said, “We’ll stay here for the rest of the night. You need some proper rest, in a real bed.”

“I’m all right,” Waylon protested, but in truth, the thought of a warm, steady bed was a welcome one. “But Kit deserves a break.”

They were met by the proprietor as soon as they walked inside, a tall, thin man with a mane of iron-grey hair and matching beard. He and Gluskin seemed to know each other, and they exchanged a greeting that was, if not warm, at least familiar.

“Don’t get too many travellers out here any more,” the man said. He gave Waylon a wolfish grin. “Is this the latest one? She looks tasty.”

“Waylon is my bride,” Gluskin said stiffly, putting a hand on Waylon’s back. Possessive, Waylon wondered, or protective?

“Uhuh.” That grin didn’t disappear, but he held up his hands. “The usual room? You on your way to Blaire’s shindig?”

“We are, yes. And yes, please.”

“I had a feeling you’d be passing through. Could say I smelled it on the air. Got it ready for you.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Got some good meat cookin’ if your lady wants dinner,” the innkeeper said.

“Perhaps later,” Gluskin said. “Waylon is really quite tired.”

“Suit yourself. Coachman outside?”

“He’ll pass the night in the stable, yes.”

“Maybe I’ll take some out for him. He’s a good lad. Well, here you go.” He had led them up a short flight of stairs, and now opened a door and ushered them in. His eyes lingered on Waylon too long, as Waylon passed him to enter the room, but he didn’t do anything untoward, and he closed the door and left Waylon and Gluskin to themselves.

When Waylon was sure the innkeeper had gone back downstairs and was out of earshot, he said, “He seems… interesting.”

“You’ve nothing to fear from Frank,” Gluskin said. “It’s a new moon.”

Waylon wasn’t sure what the phase of the moon had to do with anything, and he decided he’d rather not think about it.

The room was small, but habitable. It was a far cry from the luxury of the castle, but Waylon didn’t mind. There was one bed, a roughly-hewn chest of drawers, and a window that looked out into the impenetrable darkness of the deep woods.

“Get some rest,” Gluskin said gently, gesturing to the bed. “I want to speak to Frank a while, ask if he’s noticed anyone strange passing through lately. Are you hungry?”

Waylon had nibbled on some more of the food Sam had packed during the day, but the scent of roasting meat had his stomach growling again. “A little. Whatever he’s got cooking smells good.”

“Mm. You don’t want it, believe me. I’ll find something else for you.”

“All right,” Waylon said, not understanding but too weary to argue. He sat down on the bed, which sagged beneath him. He yawned. Gluskin left him there, and Waylon flopped onto his back and spent a few minutes studying the cobwebs on the ceiling. He was further from home than he had ever been. He took a while to wonder at that. He thought perhaps he should feel different somehow, changed, but mostly he just felt tired.

Gluskin returned before long with a tray of food—not whatever savoury meat dish Waylon had smelled cooking, but instead a salad of greens, and a herby broth with large chunks of summer vegetables floating in it. Waylon wondered at his master serving him himself. Waylon hadn’t seen any other staff; perhaps Gluskin didn’t want Frank in too close contact with Waylon. Whatever the reason, he was grateful for the food.

Gluskin stayed while Waylon ate, and then rose and said, “Get some sleep. I’ll be just downstairs.”

Waylon nodded. Before Gluskin left, he leant down and pressed his lips against Waylon’s. It was over before Waylon knew it, and he found himself staring after the vampire as he left, wishing for more. He unconsciously licked his lips, hoping to taste his master there.

Shaking his head he got up and bolted the door. Then he opened the window to let in the balmy night air, changed into his nightshirt and got into the bed. The overly soft mattress sagged beneath him until he felt like he was being swallowed up, but once he got himself situated he found it comfortable enough—more comfortable than a hard bench in a bouncing carriage, in any case. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The forest was made up of more evergreens here, and the pleasant scent of pine wafted in from outside. He could hear the quiet rumble of his master’s voice downstairs as he conversed with the innkeeper. He let it lull him to sleep.

It was still dark when he awoke. He might have been asleep for an hour or for only a moment; all was quiet, though. He could no longer hear voices downstairs. Even the forest outside was silent, with not even an owl or cicada to be heard. He wasn’t sure what had woken him, but he had come alert quite suddenly. He opened his eyes and looked straight up into  the face of a nightmare . Black, bottomless eye sockets stared directly into his eyes, boring into his mind, and he tried to scream but he couldn’t move to open his mouth. The phantom from the village hovered over his bed in a shifting cloud of dark smoke. Waylon was pinned by its unfathomable gaze. Panic sent his brain into a hectic rush, his thoughts scatter ing like cockroaches before a light.  _What do you want?_ he thought desperately.  _What is it? What is it? God help me._

It hovered over him, it felt, endlessly. Waylon was alone with it in the darkness, he couldn’t look away from it, and in his mind there was screaming; screams of anguish, screams of madness. Sometimes it almost seemed to make words, although they were in a language he didn’t know, no language he had ever heard spoken. He doubted any human tongue could reproduce it, much less comprehend it. It went on forever—and then it ended. The thing’s invisible grip on him loosened, or it released him, and suddenly Waylon’s body was his own again. The moment he could move, Waylon bolted up from the bed. He dashed to the door, unbolted it and threw it open. He dashed downstairs to what passed for a common room. A couple of barrels stood in one corner, and a small scattering of chairs and tables were arranged around an empty hearth. Thankfully Frank was nowhere to be seen, but Gluskin rose from one of the chairs nearest the hearth as Waylon ran down the stairs. Waylon fell into his arms as he rushed to meet him.

“Darling, what’s wrong? You’re white, are you well?” He pressed a hand to Waylon’s brow, but Waylon swatted him away. Still clinging to Gluskin’s jacket with one hand, he turned and pointed upstairs with the other.

“Up there,” he said, fighting to get his breath back. “In my room.”

“Who’s in your room?” Waylon heard the  razor-sharp edge to Gluskin’s voice. He appreciated it, but he didn’t reckon even Gluskin’s chances against that  _thing_ . When he began to move towards the stairs, Waylon grabbed him tighter and hissed, “Don’t go up there!”

“Darling, slow down. Explain-”

“The thing from the village, it looks like a ghost or a demon, it was in the forest today and it was in my room just now. It’s following me. I don’t know why but it’s after me.”

“Stay here,” Gluskin said, and started to peel Waylon’s fingers from his jacket.

“No!” Waylon hated to be so afraid, so needy. He took a breath and said more evenly, “If you’re going up, I want to go with you.” He told himself it was because he wanted to face his fear, not because he was afraid to be left alone.

“All right. Here.” Gluskin took Waylon’s hand in his. His grip was cold, but Waylon found comfort in it anyway, in the way his large hand encompassed his own. He went with Gluskin back up the stairs and to the room he had so hastily vacated. The door stood open, as did the window, and the thin tartan curtain fluttered in the breeze. It was dark, and Waylon’s eyes scanned every corner searching for a patch of darkness deeper than the rest, for a monstrous face in the gloom.

“There’s nothing here,” Gluskin said. His eyes were keener in the dark than Waylon’s. He let go of Waylon’s hand to cross the room and stick his head out the window. Waylon almost called to him not to do it; the image of what the shadow monster had done to the giant, Christopher Walker, was forefront in his mind. He didn’t breathe until Gluskin pulled his head back in and closed the window, then pulled the curtain across it. “You should keep the windows closed,” he said. “I know it’s hot, but we’re in the wild woods here. It’s best not to leave any invitation.”

“Invitation? You think I  _invited_ that thing in here? It was floating above me, I thought it was going to kill me. It was in my  _head_ -”

“No, no, of course not. Shh. Darling, please…” He put his hands on Waylon’s shoulders. “You’re cold. Shall I have Frank heat water for a bath?”

“What? No… No. It’s the middle of the night. No, I’m fine. I’m all right. I just… God! It was  _right there-”_

“I know, love. I know.” He folded Waylon into an embrace, and Waylon let it happen. He was replaying those chilling few seconds in which he had been paralysed and helpless beneath a creature he was certain meant him harm. Why was it haunting him? Gluskin hadn’t seen it, had he? Did that mean it had zeroed in on Waylon for some reason, was targeting him, terrorising him specifically? His breathing was coming too fast and shallow, and he made himself focus on Gluskin’s hands rubbing his back, on his comforting scent as Waylon pressed his face into his chest. Gluskin gently guided Waylon back to bed and sat Waylon down. Waylon was about to protest when Gluskin moved away from him, but he only lit a candle and set it on the chest of drawers before returning to him. Waylon was shivering. He hugged himself and rubbed his arms to try and fight off the cold.

“Get back into bed, darling,” Gluskin said.

“It might come back.”

“I don’t think it will. If it was going to do something to hurt you it would have done it.”

“Don’t say that!”

“I don’t think it will come back. Besides, if it does, it will have to deal with me now.”

“You’re staying?”

“Of course. Here, get under the blanket. There’s a good girl.”

Waylon curled under the thin blanket. Gluskin lay beside him, on top of the covers, and stroked Waylon’s hair back from his face. He leant up on one elbow, looking down at Waylon; it made Waylon feel young and small, vulnerable. He was a grown man, he shouldn’t want that kind of coddling. It did help to ease the press of anxiety on his chest, though, and he gladly shifted his body closer to the vampire’s. When Gluskin dipped his head, it was the most natural thing in the world for Waylon to meet him in a kiss. Gluskin threaded his fingers into Waylon’s hair, and he rolled Waylon onto his back as he deepened the kiss. Waylon wrapped an arm around Gluskin’s neck, arched subtly on the bed. Gluskin took it slow and gentle, dipped his tongue past Waylon’s lips to taste him, explore him, his lips a sensual caress against Waylon’s own. Waylon’s body responded to his touch. He stopped shivering, and the icy fear that had gripped him at the first sight of the dark apparition above his bed began to melt away. He embraced it. He grabbed onto anything that could chase that feeling away, and dived head first into pleasure in its stead.

When Gluskin finally started to move back, Waylon fisted a hand in his shirt and whispered, “Stay. You said you’d stay.”

Gluskin’s eyes were black in the flickering candlelight. “You’re tempting me,” he murmured. He tilted Waylon’s jaw and nuzzled his throat, grazed the points of his teeth over Waylon’s flesh. “What do you need, little darling? What do you want?”

“Anything,” Waylon said.

A growl in his voice, Gluskin said, “You don’t know what you’re saying.” Then, brokenly, “You don’t know what you do to me…”

Gluskin kissed his neck, and Waylon expected the sting of teeth but it never came. There was only softness, and then Gluskin’s hand stroking down his body and between his legs. He lifted his nightshirt and slipped his hand beneath. Waylon gasped when he wrapped that hand around his shaft.

It was just  a reaction , he told himself.  Just a natural reaction.  It was nothing more than the blood they shared, the magic and the poison of the bite. It wasn’t really  _him_ who wanted this, who craved this. It wasn’t his own will directing him to part his legs, arch his back, or claim Gluskin’s mouth once more and demand another kiss. He nicked his lips and tongue on Gluskin’s teeth, which made his mouth tingle with something that wasn’t quite pain. The taste of his own blood was associated forever with the intoxicating pleasure of his master’s bite, and the sharp tang of it combined beautifully with the sweet, sensual kisses and the masterful touch of cool hands. 

He didn’t protest, and after a while he even stopped rationalising—he stopped thinking altogether.

It was agonisingly slow. Gluskin refused to speed up, and Waylon squirmed in a torment of pleasure, coming undone one thread by frayed thread. He was flushed and sweating, his thighs open as he invited his master to touch him more, touch him everywhere. Gluskin was right—Waylon hardly knew what he was asking for, but in the heat of lust and the aftermath of deathly fear, he would likely have accepted anything Gluskin wanted to give him, done anything he asked. He came in Gluskin’s arms, and Gluskin drank Waylon’s cries of pleasure in a kiss just as easily as he could have drunk down Waylon’s blood.

His body relaxed profoundly in the aftermath of his orgasm, and it took him a while to gather his thoughts enough to process what just happened. He reached out, but Gluskin took his wrist gently and stopped him from touching.

“But, you…?”

“There’ll be time enough for that. Sleep now.”

Waylon was too tired to argue, too contented in the wake of pleasure. He hadn’t thought he would be able to sleep again, perhaps ever, after waking to the phantom staring down at him, but now weariness settled upon him like a soft blanket, and so he simply curled against Gluskin’s body and closed his eyes. Trusting his master to keep watch over him, Waylon fell asleep and didn’t wake again until morning.

 

Gluskin watched him as he fell into a deep and much-needed sleep.

He could kill him right now. He could just eat him up. He very much wanted to do just that.

He had never been so tested. Never before had he been so at war with his monstrous nature, so unwilling to surrender to the hunger that plagued him every waking moment since his father placed this curse upon him. Not even the deep affection he held for his unlikely bride was enough to quell the impulse to bite deep into that unprotected throat and glut himself on a river of sweet blood. Quite the opposite—it only made the thought of utterly consuming him, becoming one with him, all the more hard to resist.

He pressed his eyes shut.  His a rousal was  pale in comparison to the bloodlust that raged in his body and drove his mind beyond the point of reason. He ought to leave. He made himself stay and master the beast inside him that howled for blood because, if he left Waylon alone, that  _other_ monster might return, and if he couldn’t kill Waylon himself then he would die before anyone—or any _thing_ —else did. He grit his teeth, forced himself to hold Waylon gently and not to crush, not to tear. Waylon had shown him such trust, and continued to show even more now; he would not fail Waylon the way he had failed Eleanor, like he had failed all of the others. 

Waylon was different. Waylon was special.

For Waylon, he could be different too. He could be better. He could be a better man.


	7. Sundown

In the light of the morning, the terror of the night before felt far away. Waylon awoke wrapped in his blanket, sweaty and overheated. He threw his bedding off and sat up, only to swear when confronted with Gluskin standing at the end of his bed and beaming down at him.

“Good morning,” he said. “I’ve let you sleep in, but we really must be moving on, my love. Here, I’ve had a bath heated for you.”

A bath. That sounded like a wonderful idea. Waylon could wash off the travel dust, the sweat, and most importantly the unpleasantly sticky evidence of last night…

Last night. _Oh god._ He thought about pulling the blanket back over his head so he wouldn’t have to face Gluskin just yet—or ever again, in fact. _God, he’s going to be just unbearable._

He suppressed a sigh and rose from the bed. Gluskin was a gentleman this morning and turned away, ostensibly to check the temperature of the bath water, but not before sneaking a cheeky look at Waylon, who stood in his rumpled underthings and hesitated to undress. A wooden tub had been brought into the bedchamber while Waylon slept—presumably by Frank—which gave Waylon even more reason to flush in embarrassment and irritation.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Gluskin said. Waylon couldn’t see his face but he could still somehow picture his smile. “Unless you’d like some help.”

“I think I can manage,” Waylon said.

“Oh, before I go-” Gluskin whirled around, took Waylon’s face in his hands, and stole a kiss. “You were beautiful last night, darling,” he gushed. Waylon scowled, and Gluskin smiled and left him to his bath.

Waylon stripped and gave himself a good scrubbing. When he was satisfied he was as clean as could be, he dressed in clean clothes from the trunk Kit had brought up the night before, a thin linen shirt and lightweight tan trousers, suitable for the weather.

He found a breakfast of porridge and boiled eggs already set out for him downstairs. He could smell bacon cooking in the kitchen, but it was nowhere to be seen, and he didn’t ask about it. He sat and ate while Kit bustled up and down the stairs and loaded up the carriage once more. Frank, the disreputable innkeeper Waylon had met the previous night, gave him a lascivious grin as he set down a fresh mug of tea.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Frank said, waggling his eyebrows. “Sleep well?”

Before he could reply, Gluskin materialised at his side. “This blasted sun,” he complained.

“You sure you want to head out in this?” said Frank. “You look about ready to cook.”

“You know it’s not true about vampires bursting into flames in the sun,” Gluskin said.

“Only one way to find out for sure,” Frank said with a chuckle. “Besides, your lady looks tired. What, didn’t let her get a wink?”

Gluskin laid a hand on the back of Waylon’s chair. Waylon ignored the prickle of tension in the air and focused on bolting down his breakfast. He had no wish to stay any longer, and would be happy to leave both Frank and his inn—and, hopefully, the phantom—far behind.

“Are you almost ready to go, darling?” Gluskin asked. Mouth full, Waylon nodded. “Good. If we start moving now we’ll reach the city before nightfall. Come now, let’s not dawdle.” With a possessive hand on Waylon’s waist he steered him outside and into the shade of the waiting carriage. Kit clicked to the horses, and then they were underway once more.

They rode in silence for a while. Waylon gazed out the window, while Gluskin lurked on the opposite side of the carriage, the window on his side covered over to give him some relief from the sun. Waylon clasped his hands in his lap, tapped his foot, absent-mindedly bit the inside of his lip. Would Gluskin want to talk about what happened between them last night? He was trying not to think about it, but the more he tried the more it buzzed around his brain like an irritatingly persistent wasp.

It really wasn’t all that different from anything they’d done before. At least, that was what he tried to tell himself. He’d kissed Gluskin before, practically climbed all over him in the library the night the village was attacked. He couldn’t help it, the blood bond between them drove him to crave closeness with his master. But last night he had been so frightened and needy, something about the inexplicable appearance of the dark phantom in his room had gotten under his skin to the point he had turned to Gluskin for comfort in whatever form it took. He might have done the same had it been anybody else, it didn’t mean a thing that he had virtually thrown himself at him. And Gluskin, of course, had taken advantage-

Except he hadn’t. Waylon’s memory wasn’t so fuzzy he had forgotten that Gluskin hadn’t demanded satisfaction for himself, only provided Waylon with pleasure and reassurance. He hadn’t even bitten him. In that, he had been a consummate gentleman.

Waylon’s cheeks turned red even as he stared out at the passing trees. It wasn’t the woods he was seeing, but Gluskin’s dark eyes in the candlelight, so full of hunger and longing, and as he sat there he could almost feel again the cool slide of his hands, his master’s touch…

He shot a furtive glance in Gluskin’s direction, only to draw a sharp intake of breath when he found the vampire watching him intently. The hint of a smirk was on his lips, and Waylon was in no doubt that he knew exactly what he had been thinking of.

“I, uh, think I’ll sit up top for a while.”

“Mm-hmm?”

“It’s my first time travelling so far, after all. I don’t want to miss anything.”

“Of course.”

Waylon fumbled with the door and nearly fell out of the carriage. They were doing a brisk trot this morning, and only Waylon’s natural agility saved him from ending up face-first in the roadside ditch. Gluskin watched him clamber out with half-veiled eyes. Waylon was glad when he had climbed up to sit beside Kit in the open air once more. Kit greeted him with a friendly nod, and Waylon made himself comfortable. The breeze on his face went a long way to cooling the fever in his blood.

Today the trees, which had been close-packed on either side of the road ever since they left the valley, started to thin out, letting more sun through the canopy. Time passed quickly as Waylon sat beneath the dappled sunlight, breathing in the sweet-smelling woodland air, and then before Waylon could prepare for it they reached the end of the forest. The road emerged from the trees at the crest of a tall hill, giving Waylon a view across rolling farmlands neatly divided into fields with hedges and dry stone walls. A village built of grey stone stood within view further along the road. The sudden transition from wild woods to civilisation was jarring. Waylon had never seen a landscape quite like this one. Around Gluskin’s castle, the land was hilly and frequently broken up by cliffs and jagged inclines, and all covered over with the choking, claustrophobic woods. What farmland they did have, they fought tooth and nail for against the ever-encroaching tangle of trees and vines. Here the blue sky arched high overhead and Waylon could see for miles all around. The world felt wide open, and Waylon felt freer than he ever remembered. When the carriage passed through the grey stone village, the people along the roadside paused what they were doing to watch the carriage go by. Waylon smiled, and he waved to the children. Gradually the road transitioned from the rough, packed-dirt track into an actual paved road, and little by little they started to encounter other traffic: people travelling on foot, horse-drawn waggons and buggies, and the occasional uniformed courier speeding past the lot as they went about their official business. A narrow stream ran alongside the road, babbling over rocks, and many of the fields they drove past were dotted with fluffy white sheep. Waylon could not yet see the ocean, but he could taste salt on the air. They kept driving non-stop throughout the day, and steadily the settlements the road wound through got bigger and more prosperous, until they rounded a copse of trees and Waylon got his first glimpse of the sea. It was still a way off, but the sparkling blue took his breath away.

It was late when Kit elbowed Waylon out of a doze and pointed ahead. Waylon looked, and gasped. There was the city, glittering in the evening sun.

How could this be a place where vampires ruled, Waylon wondered? It was so big Waylon couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it. He had never seen a settlement so big, had never seen so many buildings clustered together they seemed to form one enormous edifice. As they followed the road along the craggy coastline and got closer to the city, Waylon was able to make out more details. It was built around a rocky bay, and there were ships in the bay with bright white sails, and gulls wheeling overhead. A high wall surrounded the city, encompassing the harbour, built of the same grey stone as the villages they had driven through. Above, the skyline was dominated by the palace, which sat atop a high cliff overhanging the waves.

Kit slowed the weary horses as they approached the city wall, where a huge gate stood open, guarded by men in dark armour. They waved the carriage down, and Kit reined the horses to a halt under the shade of the gate’s impressive arch. One of the guards spoke to Kit. He had a trefoil knot emblazoned on his chest. He seemed to know Kit already, to Waylon’s relief, although he gave Waylon a curious look. Just as Waylon started to sweat, the carriage door was thrown open and Gluskin stepped out.

“Why are we stopped?” he said. “Stephenson, isn’t it?”

The guard turned his attention away from Waylon and to Gluskin. “Yes sir.”

“Haven’t I been coming to these infernal events since before you were born? I remember when your father wore that armour instead of you, and your grandfather before him. What possible reason do you have for holding me up? Do you plan to keep me waiting out here in this sun until I burst into flames?”

Stephenson blanched. “Security’s tight this year, Lord Gluskin, sir,” he said apologetically. “We’ve been told to check everyone entering the city.”

“Well? I trust you’re satisfied.”

“Yes sir,” said Stephenson, visibly flustered. He looked pointedly at Waylon. “And you’re travelling with…?”

“My coachman, and my wife.”

“Your-” He coughed. “Of course. No other staff, thralls, or slaves?”

“Not today.”

Waylon wasn’t sure, but he thought the evening seemed a little darker than it had a moment ago; the shadows beneath the arch moved restlessly. The guards noticed it too, and Stephenson bowed hurriedly and said, “All seems to be in order then, Lord Gluskin. Welcome. Do you need an escort up to the palace?”

“No, I think we’ll manage. Waylon, inside with me.”

Waylon jumped down from the box and got inside the carriage. Gluskin followed, slammed the door shut, and then they were moving again.

“I thought it wasn’t true about vampires bursting into flames,” Waylon said as they passed beneath the gate and into the city proper.

“Hush, I only wanted to frighten him.”

“I’d rather have stayed up top though. I wanted to see.”

“I know, my love, but it’s not safe.”

“Why not?” Waylon peered out the window. They were making their way up a wide street, heading uphill. The buildings were several storeys high, and many of them had stalls or tables of wares out the front of them, around which crowds of people milled despite the late hour. The street was lined with arrangements of flowers, and the buildings were decorated with garlands. The people of Waylon’s village decorated their home similarly around midsummer, and it made him smile to see. This was more people than Waylon had ever seen gathered together, and the city itself was a wonder. He wanted to be walking among the people, breathing in the scents of the city, touching the stones of the houses.

“Just trust me, darling. Every one of those people is the property of Blaire or one of his cronies. Their loyalty belongs to him, as do their souls.”

Waylon let the curtain fall across the window, leaving them in semi-darkness, and went to sit beside his master. Gluskin was visibly tense. Waylon put a hand over his and Gluskin didn’t swat him away. “I’m not afraid, darling, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He lifted Waylon’s hand to his mouth and kissed his knuckles. “But it wouldn’t do to relax our guard. This man is our enemy, my love. He sent his attack dog into my territory, your home, and most likely has other plans afoot. We’ll play our role here, but our purpose is to find out what his game is and, if possible, put a stop to it.” Waylon nodded. “If I’m afraid of anything, it’s for your safety. You’re so fragile, my little love…”

“I’ll be fine.” Waylon smiled. “I promise to be careful.”

“You won’t leave my side, you understand? Not unless I tell you otherwise.”

“All right.”

“Good.” He stroked Waylon’s hair. Waylon, touched by his protectiveness, leant in for a kiss. At first it was just a soft, reassuring brush of lips, but the next moment they both came back for more. The gentle press of lips deepened, Waylon opened his mouth and let Gluskin push his tongue inside and met it with his own. A warm rush of desire suffused Waylon’s body. One of Gluskin’s hands fastened around the back of Waylon’s neck. “You’re mine,” Gluskin said. “I want you to understand that before we get to that awful place. I want you to remember it.”

“I will.”

“Come here.” He lifted Waylon effortlessly into his lap. Waylon, breathless and with his heart hammering, put up no resistance when Gluskin kissed him again, harder this time. Outside the gently rocking carriage, the hustle and bustle of the city carried on. People went about their evening within feet of the carriage walls, preparing for their own midsummer celebrations, entirely unaware. The only thing that separated Waylon and his master from view was a curtain on the window that seemed to Waylon far too flimsy.

Waylon held onto Gluskin’s broad shoulders, intending to push away from him but instead kneading his muscles as he pressed himself down on Gluskin’s lap. Gluskin’s hips jerked, his arms tightened around Waylon’s waist, and Waylon felt the hard ridge of his cock pressing against his backside.

“Won’t we be arriving soon?” he whispered.

“Soon,” Gluskin agreed. “But there’s time for this.” He pushed Waylon’s shirt up and pinched his nipples, pulled on them, making Waylon gasp. He licked up Waylon’s neck, found his pulse point, and sucked. When he bit into Waylon’s flesh, Waylon arched and sighed because it was what he had been waiting for. The pleasure came quickly and made him tremble. He tilted his head back and rocked his hips against his master, mindless with desire.

Gluskin’s hands swept lower, around Waylon’s waist and down beneath his clothing to grip his buttocks, knead them, spread them. Waylon rose up on his knees to encourage him.

In the heat of his abandon he spared a thought for Lisa. He had spoken to her before he left, and they had parted on bad terms. He had told her she deserved better than to wait for a husband who may never be able to come home again, and those words had never been truer than just now, with his cock achingly hard and Gluskin’s fingers stroking between his buttocks so teasingly and slowly he thought he might go mad. Lisa was a good woman. She deserved better than his wretched, faithless self, deserved better than a man who had thrown away everything to become a monster’s bride.

Just as he had resigned himself to wallowing in guilt for offering himself up on a plate for his un-dead groom—because he had no intention of stopping—Gluskin withdrew his teeth from his neck, lapped up the trickles of blood that still spilled from the wound, and then said, “Ah, just in time. We’re here.”

“What?” Waylon snapped, blinking rapidly and peering around. Sure enough, the carriage had rolled to a stop. Gluskin lifted him from his lap, and he fumbled with his clothes as suddenly Kit opened the carriage door, and Gluskin, with a lick of his lips and a devilish smile, alighted. He held a hand out to help Waylon down. Waylon’s legs felt like jelly and he stumbled into Gluskin as soon as his feet hit the ground. Gluskin steadied him, smoothed his dishevelled hair back from his face, and straightened his shirt, although he couldn’t do anything about the blood on the collar. Then he took Waylon’s elbow and led him smoothly forward.

They had pulled up to the base of a wide stone staircase leading up to the main entrance of the palace. The stairs and entrance were covered over by a huge canopy to keep the sun off, and he heard the fabric snapping in the sea breeze. Waylon only managed to catch a brief glimpse of the building before passing beneath the canopy. It was vast and very square, like someone had simply plopped a great big box upon the hilltop. It wasn’t built of the local grey stone everything else nearby seemed to be constructed from, but a bright, creamy limestone, and was decorated all over with a profusion of arches, columns, and other detailing. It was at once impressive and bizarrely, hugely out of place.

“I didn’t expect you to greet us yourself,” Gluskin was saying to a richly dressed man descending the steps. Waylon pulled his attention away from the building and to the people who stood on and around the steps. He saw a mixture of armed, armoured guards bearing the same trefoil emblem as the guards at the city gate, and servants in spotless blue and white livery. The man Gluskin addressed wore dark blue velvet, and a jewelled circlet glittered on his brow. So this was the so-called prince of vampires? Gluskin showed no deference to the man, and Waylon was unsure of the proper protocol.

“And how long have we known each other?” the man said in response to Gluskin’s remark. He smiled broadly, but it failed to reach his pale eyes. “We’re practically old friends.” He turned his hard, pale eyes on Waylon and said, “Besides, when you wrote you’d be bringing a companion I got curious. Eddie, why don’t you introduce your friend?”

Gluskin put an arm around Waylon’s shoulders and said, “This is my bride, Waylon. Darling, this is Jeremy Blaire. Oh, I’m awfully sorry—Prince Jeremy.”

Blaire’s face tightened. He didn't like Gluskin's veiled disrespect. 

Waylon was acutely aware of his own rumpled, rustic clothing, his mussed hair and red face, and the fresh bite on his neck. He would have preferred not to arrive at the home of vampire royalty looking like a debauched blood slave. He bobbed an awkward bow and said, “Waylon Park.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Waylon. I really hope you enjoy my little party tonight. Be sure to save me a dance, won’t you.”

“We’ll see,” Gluskin answered for him.

“Formal as ever, Ed. Here, my man will show you up to your rooms so you can freshen up before the party starts. Looking forward to seeing you both later.” He gave Waylon a considering smile. “Waylon.”

As Waylon and Gluskin crossed the palace’s grand entrance hall, Waylon whispered, “You didn’t ask him about the attack.”

“All things in due time, my love,” Gluskin replied, also keeping his voice down. “He’ll want to see what we do. Come. The party will be starting soon and we have to be prepared.”

 

* * *

 

Their accommodations in Blaire’s cliff-side palace were a world away from Gluskin’s castle. Where the castle’s cold, bare walls were covered only here and there with dusty old hangings, the palace walls were ornately panelled and hung with exotic art from all over the world. The furniture was all new and gleaming, dark polished woods and plush upholstery. Waylon felt like he was stepping forward in time, and only realised now how badly Gluskin was stuck in the era of his birth. Centuries had gone by since Gluskin’s father brought the vampire curse down upon his family, but in the little wooded valley and the castle above it time had stood still.

Gluskin wrinkled his nose as he took in the lavish decoration. Waylon, meanwhile, crossed the bedchamber to a set of glass doors, which opened onto a little balcony. Their room was on the side of the palace, and overlooked the ocean. The sun was going down, and the sky around it was painted in stripes of red and burnt orange, the colours reflected upon the sea. Directly beneath the balcony, the palace walls seemed to emerge from a sheer cliff face, at the bottom of which waves roiled and lapped. Waylon took a deep breath of the salty air and grinned.

Suddenly a heavy hand grasped the back of his neck and pulled him back inside. Gluskin closed the doors and pulled the shades over them to block out the sunset.

“What are you doing? What’s wrong?” Gluskin didn’t reply. He was prowling around the room as though looking for hidden traps. “I wouldn’t have fallen.” Waylon opened the curtains again and looked out at the sea. The waves appeared gilded by the setting sun. “It’s so beautiful here,” he said wistfully.

“A flower is only as sweet as the soil that nourishes it, my love,” said Gluskin. “This one may be pretty to look at, but it can’t hide the poison that lies beneath.” He wrapped an arm around Waylon’s middle and pulled him against his body, drawing him away from the doors once again. “I never should have brought you here, it’s too dangerous.”

“Then why did you?”

“You know why,” he sighed. He stroked Waylon’s belly before gathering up the hem of his shirt and slipping his hand beneath.The stolen moments of pleasure in the carriage on the way up through the city were still fresh in Waylon’s mind, and indeed his body still felt the potent, and rather embarrassing, effects. “I can’t be away from you,” Gluskin said. “I can’t get enough of you.”

“Aren’t we meant to be getting ready?”

“The party will go on until sunrise. No one will come looking for us if we’re a little late.” He nuzzled Waylon’s hair, made Waylon shiver when he mouthed over the fresh, aching wound on his neck. Waylon’s pulse leapt. He kept his eyes fixed on the view through the balcony doors, on the sliver of glittering water and the burning sky above.

Waylon thought of Lisa again, this time with a pang of sadness accompanying the guilt. He had hurt her, but he consoled himself it was for the best. Gluskin was possessive and wouldn’t tolerate any competition for Waylon’s heart. Waylon had had no choice but to make a clean break, for Lisa’s own sake, and for the sake of his children.

Gluskin had introduced Waylon to Blaire as his bride, and as far as any vampire was concerned it was true. Their chamber had only one bed, as though they really were man and wife. Waylon didn’t know much about vampire law, but he suspected he had been marked as Gluskin’s mate ever since the very first bite. Now there was only one threshold left to cross, Waylon thought they might as well get it over with. Although he was still apprehensive, he couldn’t deny he no longer viewed the prospect with the horror he had initially. Quite far from it, in fact.

His stomach fluttering with nerves, he turned in Gluskin’s arms and pushed him back. Gluskin looked surprised, and Waylon took advantage of the moment’s pause to take his face firmly between his hands and kiss him. He walked him backward, towards the lavish canopy bed with its silken curtains and piles of embroidered pillows. Gluskin’s hands came to his hips, and his lips parted for Waylon to take the lead. When he reached the bed he sat down and Waylon straddled his lap.

“I want… I want you to finish what you started in the carriage,” Waylon said. He took a fistful of Gluskin’s hair and tipped his head back, exposing his white throat. Gluskin gasped in delight.

“Oh, darling, nothing would make me happier!” He grabbed Waylon by the waist and threw him down onto the bed, and then rose up onto his knees to drink in the sight of him. Waylon’s legs were spread, his shirt had ridden up enough to show a sliver of skin at his abdomen.

“Come here,” Waylon said, reaching for him.

Gluskin sank down atop him, pressed him into the heavenly-soft feather mattress. He kissed him like a starving man, and indeed, moments later he moved his kisses to Waylon’s neck and nipped here and there, taking teasing sips of Waylon’s blood. He tore the collar of Waylon’s shirt so he could continue down to his shoulder. Waylon squirmed beneath him, confused by the pain-then-pleasure of each shallow bite. Meanwhile, Gluskin’s hands were all over him, not quite rough but definitely on the harder side of firm, his touches only hinting at the phenomenal, preternatural strength he only held back because he wanted to. He could tear Waylon apart like paper if he so chose; the thought frightened Waylon just as much as it thrilled him.

He tugged at Gluskin’s shirt, and Gluskin lifted his head. His eyes were dark, his lips red with blood.

“Please,” Waylon said, fighting to catch his breath. “I want to see you.”

“Do you?” Gluskin’s eyes widened in surprise, and then he grinned. “Well, my sweet, sweet darling, how could I deny you?” He knelt up, leaving Waylon bloodied and trembling, and loosened his tie. He began removing his clothing one piece at a time, slow enough to leave Waylon squirming in frustration. He was sure the vampire could simply transform his way out of them, turn to smoke and leave a pile of fabric behind, but Gluskin wanted the show of it; Waylon could tell from his persistent half-smile that he liked Waylon watching him. He shed his tie, his coat, and his shirt, revealing a thickly muscled torso criss-crossed with scars. He must have received them before he died, Waylon thought. The scarring from his face extended some way down his neck and onto his chest and shoulder. Waylon tried not to let his eyes linger on it as he didn’t know if it was something his master was sensitive about; he had initially thought it looked like a burn, but now he’d had time to study it properly it looked more like he had been ravaged by some illness, similar to that which had afflicted some of the castle staff, although to a lesser degree. Waylon focused instead on his chiselled physique, his flat belly and sharply angled hips. He wanted to see more, but when he reached out Gluskin held his hands and pinned him back down upon the bed.

“You first, my darling. I want to see what’s mine. All of it, this time. Allow me.”

Waylon hardly dared to breathe as Gluskin stripped him. His master’s hands were careful, slow, and when Waylon looked at his face he found a look of worship there. Waylon helped him, and within a moment Waylon’s body was bared entirely.

“Oh, my love. Oh, you’re so beautiful.” Gluskin slid shaking hands up Waylon’s calves, then the outside of his thighs. Waylon gripped the pillows by his head and tried to keep breathing evenly. He was entirely exposed now, nothing between him and his master’s adoring gaze. Waylon expected Gluskin to flip him over and ravish him immediately, but he surprised him by kissing his way slowly up Waylon’s body, from foot to knee, then to his hip. Perversely, Waylon tilted his hips toward him, half in invitation, half simply wanting to be seen.

“Yes, yes,” Gluskin cooed. “I’ll take care of you, needy minx, but you must be patient.” He swiped his tongue over Waylon’s belly, a mere breath away from where the tip of his cock leaked and twitched. Waylon covered his face with one of the pillows and let his legs fall open. “Look at you,” Gluskin purred. Waylon could hear the pride in his voice even though the pillow muffled everything. “So eager. So ready for me, aren’t you? Good girl.”

The praise should not have sent a thrill throughout all of Waylon’s body, but it did, and he whimpered. Gluskin returned to licking, kissing, and biting his way up Waylon’s body, his firm hands following in possessive caresses. When he reached Waylon’s chest he lavished Waylon’s hard nipples with attention. “Let me see your face, darling,” he murmured before going back to suckling insistently upon one of them. Waylon kept the pillow in place and shook his head. He was squirming beneath Gluskin’s attentions now, the soft, wet touches going straight to his cock. It wasn’t until Gluskin sank his teeth into the soft flesh around one nipple that Waylon, flinching, threw the pillow aside and cried out. He pushed at Gluskin’s shoulders, gasping in discomfort. The vampire only smiled up at him and licked his lips. His fangs were elongated and appeared bright in what was now twilight—the sun had finally sunk below the horizon, and the chamber was filled with dark, bluish light almost like they were underwater. “Such a good, sweet girl,” Gluskin crooned. He made his leisurely way back down Waylon’s body and settled himself between Waylon’s thighs like he had every right to be there.

Waylon gasped when Gluskin’s fingers finally delved in between his buttocks to press gently at his entrance. Gluskin paused, chuckled, and said, “My my. You really are a virgin… at least here.”

“Is virgin blood really sweeter?” Waylon wondered.

“No, but their cunts are tighter.” Gluskin left the bed for a moment, retrieved something from one of their bags. He returned carrying a small bottle, like a scent bottle, made of blue glass and closed with a jewelled stopper. Waylon spread his thighs and reached for him. In the back of his mind he was aware of how he must look, wanton and needy, but he didn’t care. His blood was on fire. The pain of the myriad bites all over him hadn’t lessened his desire one bit—somehow it was quite the opposite. He burned for his master’s touch, for his bite, for his love. There was a great emptiness inside him that he knew only his master could fill. Gluskin opened the bottle and poured a sweet-smelling oil onto his fingers. He circled the slick tip of one finger around Waylon’s entrance, and gave his cock a playful lick.

“Now, now, no need to fuss, my love,” he crooned when Waylon squirmed. “I know you’re as eager as I am to consummate our love. Just… try to enjoy the anticipation. I’ll be inside you soon, but you’re not ready yet. Oh, love, you’re _so_ tight…” He pressed, and his finger popped inside the tight ring of muscle to the first knuckle. Waylon had expected pain, but there wasn’t any, not yet at least. It felt strange, and deliciously different. Gluskin had been generous with the oil, and Waylon was eager and ready for more. He lifted his hips, earning himself another affectionate laugh from the vampire. “There’s my needy little slut, you want more?” Waylon nodded. “Here you are, then…” He pushed his finger deeper, deeper. Waylon’s body opened up for him, welcomed him inside. “I knew you would be perfect.” He licked at Waylon’s cock some more, and then turned his attention to an inner thigh. He added a second finger to Waylon’s opening at the same time as he sank his teeth into the meat of Waylon’s thigh. Waylon made a high-pitched sound and his body convulsed. He grabbed at the pillows, scattered several off the edge of the bed. Just as every time before, the pain of the bite quickly became pleasure—a deeper and headier pleasure than ever before—only this time combined with the unfamiliar sensation of thick fingers delving deep inside him. That still didn’t hurt, even though he was stretched now; there was a slight burn, but the smooth, hypnotising slide deep within him more than made up for it. Gluskin withdrew his teeth and licked over the deep bite on Waylon’s thigh until it began to heal, then moved higher up and bit again. Meanwhile, his fingers found a spot inside Waylon that had him arching his back and curling his toes, and proceeded to rub and tease it again and again, mercilessly.

Waylon was nearly delirious by the time Gluskin slipped his fingers out of him and crawled up his body to kiss him. He wrapped his arms around the vampire’s neck and opened his mouth wide. Gluskin licked deep into his mouth and Waylon suckled the coppery taste of his own blood from Gluskin’s tongue.

He felt the stretch when Gluskin started to enter him. His master’s cock was much larger than his fingers, and Waylon momentarily lost his breath as he was forced further open than ever before. He dug his nails into Gluskin’s shoulders, instinctively tried to get away from the painful intrusion. Gluskin’s hands on his hips kept him in place, and he growled and pressed more of his length into Waylon’s tight entrance.

“I know… I know it hurts, darling, but just… try to endure,” Gluskin said in a rough voice, and then gasped as, with a snap of his hips, he forced the rest of his cock inside Waylon until he was buried in him completely. “Oh god! Darling… whore…” He clamped his teeth into Waylon’s throat, deeper and harder than any of his previous little love-bites. Waylon felt dizzy, his blood rushed in his ears like he was going to faint. The ceiling he stared up at was spinning. He felt split open, speared twice over. Gluskin didn’t pause before starting to fuck into Waylon’s virgin ass, and Waylon, mind fuddled by the overwhelming ecstasy of the bite, moaned and writhed beneath him. He realised vaguely that Gluskin could kill him like this and he wouldn’t even resist. He wasn’t sure he would even mind. His weight on him was suffocating, and all it would take was one gulp of blood too much, or else one snap of his jaws. He moaned again, brokenly, and came hard.

Gluskin’s arms tightened around him, squeezing the breath out of him. He kept driving his cock into him again and again, so deep Waylon felt he was being hollowed out all the way to his heart, each bruising impact wringing a weak yelp from Waylon’s torn throat. He sobbed his way through his climax and held on for dear life. He was losing his grip on consciousness. He thought he heard Gluskin’s voice, though it was very far away, whispering words of adoration mingled with crude insults as though he couldn’t decide whether he loved Waylon or hated him. The rhythm of his thrusts became erratic, cruel, desperate. Waylon felt him release inside him and closed his eyes. Drawing a last shuddering breath, he let go. Darkness rushed up to engulf him like a wave, and he was swallowed by the tide.

 

* * *

  

“Darling? Darling?”

Waylon’s eyes fluttered open. Disoriented and sluggish, he lay perfectly still for several moments. The room was dark, and quiet save for the rhythmic wash of waves breaking against the rocks at the base of the cliff. Gluskin’s face hovered over his. He looked worried, maybe even scared. When he saw Waylon was awake he let out a shaky sigh and bowed his head, resting his brow on Waylon’s chest.

“What… How long was I blacked out?” Waylon croaked. He absent-mindedly stroked Gluskin’s shoulders, then his hair. He still felt woozy, but his body was languid with the aftermath of pleasure.

“Only a few moments,” Gluskin said, muffled. When he did lift his head Waylon saw his eyes were awash with tears.

“Why are you crying?”

“Ah, it’s nothing to worry about, my love.” Waylon wiped away a falling tear with his thumb. “It’s only that… when you swooned there was a moment I was half afraid you… that is, that I’d…”

“I understand,” Waylon whispered. He didn’t tell him that he’d almost wondered the same. He brought his hand to his throat. The wound there was deep, but already begun its healing. “I’m all right. Oh! The party!” He tried to rise, but Gluskin pushed him back down again.

“Easy, easy. There’s plenty of time.”

“But what if we miss it?”

“Darling… I feel like an absolute brute. Maybe you should stay up here and rest instead? I can go and show my face, you don’t need to leave this bed.”

“No,” Waylon said stubbornly. “You said I wasn’t to leave your sight, remember? You can’t leave me all alone up here.”

Gluskin looked pained. “But, darling-”

“Besides, I might never get another opportunity to wear that fantastic costume you’ve made for me,” Waylon tried, and he saw Gluskin waver. “Don’t you want to see me in it?”

“You can wear it for me in private,” Gluskin said softly, but Waylon shook his head.

“It won’t be the same. You want everyone else to see me in it too, don’t you?” He stroked Gluskin’s hair as he spoke. “Everyone seeing how beautiful I look, wanting me, even though the only one who can have me is you.”

Gluskin groaned and rested his brow on Waylon’s shoulder. “You always know just what to say, you clever minx. Damn you. Fine, as you wish.”

“Gluskin-”

“I wish you would call me Edward. Especially now.”

“Edward… Blaire called you Eddie.”

Gluskin wrinkled his nose. “Only to bait me.”

“I don’t know.” Waylon played with a stray lock of black hair. “I kind of like it.” He smiled. “Ed.”

“Don’t push it,” Gluskin growled. “Although… I suppose it doesn’t sound quite as bad coming from you.”

“Eddie.” Waylon turned it over in his mind, felt it on his tongue. He liked it.

 

* * *

  

Their suite included a private bathroom complete with running water—an absolute novelty for Waylon, who had never seen the like before—and a tub big enough for two. Waylon would have liked to linger in it for hours. He made a promise to himself to do just that after the gauntlet of the ball was over with. Now that the post-orgasm euphoria was wearing off his body had begun to ache, and he suspected that by morning he would feel as though he’d rolled down a cliff. He drank a couple of glasses of water to counter his headache, and would eat as soon as he was able to begin to regain his strength, but there wasn’t much he could do for his poor abused backside. It was sore, to the extent he was aware of it at all times. He moved gingerly, and resolved to avoid sitting down if he could manage it.

Eddie bathed Waylon himself, and then helped him into his gown before donning his own costume, which consisted of a dark coat and trousers, knee-high black boots, and a short mantle trimmed with black fur that was surely too hot for the warm summer night. His mask was shaped like a wolf’s head, with glossy black fur and gleaming eyes, though it left the lower portion of his face exposed. The effect was uncanny, especially when he smiled and showed off his sharp white teeth.

It was around midnight by the time they exited their room and, shown the way by an over-eager servant, made their way downstairs. Waylon leant heavily on Gluskin’s arm as they walked, still light-headed from the loss of blood. The muted sounds of music and voices wafted through the hallways long before they reached the grand set of doors that led into the ballroom. As they stood arm in arm and waited for the attendants to open the doors and announce them, Gluskin turned to Waylon and smiled and said, “Are you ready to face the wolves, darling?”

Waylon wasn’t ready. He was tired and sore; what he was really ready for was a night of uninterrupted sleep, but if there was even a chance that going through this would help in some way to protect the village and its people—his family included—then he could put his own discomfort aside and do it.

“I’m ready,” he said.


End file.
